


it goes on and on and on

by chellian



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (somewhat), Alive Marco Bott, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Dissociation, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Jean Kirstein-centric, M/M, Marco Bott-centric, Minor Sasha Blouse/Niccolo, Second Chances, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Anime Spoilers, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-22 09:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30036828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellian/pseuds/chellian
Summary: Well, if he was being honest, something is wrong with his own body— his legs seem to be too long, half of his face is intact, and his hair is…Gulping, he tries to look at his reflection on one of the windows— certainly enough, he has aged. He seems to be four years older, his freckled face full of maturity and sturdiness, his gray eyes gleaming with shattered naivety. He also has teeth marks and scars of when that titan had… ate him, and it seems they will not be going away. He takes a deep breath, trying not to feel self conscious about all this.or; Marco is given a second chance and is flung to the Year 854, fully aged up, and during the time Jean Kirschtein is in Marley serving as a spy for Paradis.
Relationships: Armin Arlert & Jean Kirstein, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, Sasha Blouse & Jean Kirstein & Connie Springer, implied Sasha Blouse/Niccolo - Relationship
Comments: 17
Kudos: 97





	1. have some family fluff before the unabashed angst train!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco gets yeeted into 854.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic idea has been slowly eating me up inside, and I have no choice but to write it down before I forget all about it. also, this is my first snk fic, and i'm trying to portray and write the characters properly and accurately, along with some side headcannons (older brother Jean would be the DEATH of me tbh) as i continue writing this. and yes, canon events will certainly happen, but the difference is that Marco is there.

**i.**

“We haven’t even had a chance to talk this through!” Is Marco’s last words, tears in his eyes as he grapples at the thought that his life had already reached the end, no more bridges to cross. He initially did not care about the titan that was behind him, giving him a predaceous grin as its grimy, disgusting fingers picked him up whilst he cried for help towards the people he had called his friends. He had only realized that his life ended  _ right here _ when he met the titan’s eyes; it is not full of friendliness, or hostility, or any  _ humane _ emotion, rather, it was full of thirst for human flesh.

He starts to scream as teeth meet skin, tempted to dig into his flesh to tear him apart. He could not deny it; it was painful, having your skin slowly be bitten in half. He imagines himself being covered in the fire ants that bite his skin, except this time, it is more painful. He knows, he  _ knows _ that he is coming to an end, just at the tender age of fifteen. He didn’t want to die, he  _ never _ wanted to die, especially here, in a battlefield. He was supposed to have a safe, happy life within the walls furthest from the titans, as a Military Police, along with Jean.

In his last few moments full of conscious pain, he remembers  _ Jean. _

Plenty of questions were in his mind right now— is Jean okay? Is he helping Mikasa, Armin, and the others to fend off titans to get them away from Eren? Is he still  _ alive? _

He wishes that he  _ is, _ unlike the situation that he is in now, his face being eaten in half by this cursed being, whilst his remaining eye locks at the three whom he had thought were his friends, were traitors.

They could’ve just talked it out— and they chose to put an end to him.

Did he deserve this cruel fate?

All he could think of was Jean, how he was going to leave him alone in this world once life escapes from his eyes, a flame that had been dancing, gone at a moment’s notice.

He didn’t  _ want _ to think of how Jean would react if he had found and recognized his body; he didn’t  _ want _ him to discover that his best friend was dead.

All Marco Bodt wanted was to help his friends and get into MP, not to be thrust into battle too soon.

He wanted a second chance in life.

That was all he wanted, as his last remaining consciousness was focused on someone,  _ anyone, _ to give him another chance at his life.

The last thing he sees is Annie, Bertholdt, and Reiner, with forlorn looks — even  _ Reiner, _ the audacity of that man — staring at him as his own blood blots out the sun like ink, feeling all kinds of pain on his right side.

* * *

Marco starts to breathe again.

Well, no, technically he is  _ not _ breathing— he just gasps, sucking in non-existent air as his eyes open once again.

A feeling of confusion spreads through him.

Wasn’t he supposed to be dead?

His right side does not even feel that light like how he had last felt. It felt  _ whole, _ like it’s supposed to be, before that titan gnawed him to death slowly but surely.

(He’d prefer if his death was more peaceful— safer.

Rather than suffer and die a million times.)

His left hand trembling, he touches the right side of his face.

His face is still whole, once again.

“What…?” He asks to himself, confused. He looks around, mouth agape. There is nothing but black, white, and every other single color turned into a spotlight. Neither was there an entrance or exit, as if there is no such thing as the outside world in the area he had woken up in. “Wasn’t I eaten alive by a titan? Where am I?”

No one responds to him, the neon lights of blue, green, purple and pink circling around this ever-shifting black-and-white room. Honestly, the colors dancing around him like cadets in aerial battle are making him feel dizzy.

With a sigh, he sits back down, wondering why he was in this place. Was this the purgatory his mother had warned him he’ll end up in when he was a child?

Marco looks around, only to find nothing but those  _ stupid _ moving lights. It is already grinding on his gears, and he wishes it would stop.

Then, he feels a kick into his brain, and his once-sluggish mind, still in shock from the horrific death he had suffered from, was forced to fully wake up.

Memories, memories of when he was young, up until his death, circling around him like an endless cycle of agony. He avoids looking at his final memories — of Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie staring at his beaten and broken body — preferring to gawk at the fragments of his life that he has made all by himself. With a small gleam of remembrance in his eyes, he stares at these memories like they are all portraits; fully detailed portraits. But why are they showing him these? Did his memories not flash before his life comes to an end like his mothers said?

Why is he now seeing them?

What could it be?

His gray eyes linger upon the first time he had rebelled against his parents— staying up late at night just to read a book that he can’t just wait until the morning to finish. Of course, he was caught by one of his mothers, Cammi, who immediately punished him by taking away his book, leaving him to weep for the night.

Marco smiles a little, his eyes glinting with care and fondness for his mother. “I miss you so much, mother, Mia. I’m sorry that I had to leave so soon.” He sniffles a little, before moving to the next memory that had caught his eye.

It was him and Jean’s first meeting; during dinnertime, before he had made a scene with Eren. Marco had given him a smile in greeting, which Jean reciprocated by arrogantly rolling his eyes and walking away from his table. He didn’t think that he would gain that haughty man’s attention, but he  _ did, _ and he basked in the attention that Jean kept on giving him, wanting him by his side, always and forever.

He was ripped apart from Jean’s side too soon— ripped apart from everyone else’s lives, like the cadets.

Damn it, they were  _ children. _

He just… wanted to have a safe and peaceful life, is that all so much to ask for?

Marco sighs; is this the curse of accidentally having eavesdropped on Reiner and Bertholdt’s conversation?

He just wanted to live.

He  _ wants a second chance. _

To be with everyone else, alive and well, visit Cammi and Mia, befriend the rest of the Military Police and reform its system.

He wants to be with  _ Jean. _

Marco can’t get over that man, for some reason. For all his faults — his temper, his bluntness, and his lack of restraint — Jean Kirstein managed to captivate him enough to the point his heart will keep beating faster when they are of the same room as each other, or whenever his chocolate eyes make contact with his stormy gray ones. He is taken aback at these sorts of feelings— does he…  _ like _ Jean?

He grits his teeth; all the more reason why he  _ wants _ to have a second chance, to have another chance of being by Jean’s side, this time  _ permanently. _

(Well, as permanent as he needs to be.)

“Just give me a second chance!” He screams into the void, but he hears nothing echoing right back at him. Good, he did not want the feeling of being alone to intensify. “I want to be with Jean! Please, whoever is back there, help me get back to him!”

The lights only blink from a distance, and nothing more.

Then, another memory pops up.

Wait, no.

It was not a memory.

He had never gone into Trost District until the recent battle.

This Trost looks… newer, not a single speck of debris or blood marking its walls.

Marco didn’t know why… but he is running towards this image.

His legs were moving, but his mind stayed in the same spot, numb and broken.

He is running, one of his arms reaching out to the scene ahead of him, his gray eyes gleaming with… what? Hope, joy, or happiness?

He feels a blinding flash of light and the feeling of time and space changing him; his body is changing in so many ways that he can’t help but feel overwhelmed, and—

Marco Bodt, a newly changed man, has face planted on the grounds of Trost District.

* * *

“Hey! Watch it!” The sound of a disgruntled old man wakes him up from that  _ embarrassing _ reentry to Trost.

Marco flashes the man he had almost tripped a guilty frown, “Ah, I am so sorry!” He stops for a moment, his voice sounding different; there is something wrong with his voice. It is deeper, but it still retains its considerably gentle and kind tone.

Well, if he was being honest, something is wrong with his own body— his legs seem to be too long, half of his face is intact, and his hair is…

The young man puts a hand to his hair— huh, someone must have trimmed it shorter (but who was that certain someone?).

Gulping, he tries to look at his reflection on one of the windows— certainly enough, he has aged. He seems to be four years older, his freckled face full of maturity and sturdiness, his gray eyes gleaming with shattered naivety. He also has teeth marks and scars of when that titan had… ate him, and it seems they will not be going away. He takes a deep breath, trying not to feel self conscious about all this.

Why did that void age him up? Time could not have possibly passed unless he was there for a long time or—

He looks at his surroundings; back where he had died, all civilians have evacuated, leaving this district abandoned, but now, Trost looked good as new, like it had before the Colossal Titan — Bertholdt — showed up to create a hole to let the titans in. He had vaguely remembered Eren carrying a large boulder to seal the hole in the wall, but…

“Huh?” He reaches the gate that had been full of cracks, full of titans sprawling around, only to find a newer gate awaiting his gaze.

Now, everything clicks into place: the way he looks older, the way the houses are repaired, the way everyone is acting like nothing has happened, the way there is a gate rather than a boulder pressed on it to keep the titans out. His eyes widen in shock and horror, as he realizes why he feels like nothing has changed at all.

This is in the  _ future _ ; how many years had passed since the Battle of Trost District, he couldn’t tell.

Marco snaps himself out of his frenzy with a memory; Cammi and Mia sitting on their respective chairs back home, in Utopia District, in Wall Rose.

He bites his lower lip, tears streaming down his face at the thought of seeing his mothers again.

Jean could wait a little longer.

He is coming back to the village he abandoned first.

* * *

The Utopia District on the north of Wall Rose looks the same as it used to, back when things were simple and there was no such thing as titan-shifting humans. Marco had escaped through the gates discreetly without gaining the people’s unwarranted attention, running and tripping on roots and streams just to get back to the family he had left. People seem to be adjusting quickly (of course, they’ve had how many years to cope with the sudden attacks of the titans) to the lives they had once led before, and he thinks whether or not that was a good thing.

He wonders if his mothers are still there, Cammi knitting clothes for her, her wife, and her son, Mia watering the small but sufficient garden that they own. His eyes water just at the memory of Cammi giving him a new winter coat for the snowy season, whilst Mia serves him hot vegetable soup she had taken from the garden. He misses their smiles, the way they love him just as much as they love each other.

He wants them to be okay— he  _ needs _ them to be okay.

After a few more hours trying to navigate the way he is supposed to go, he arrives at the edge of Utopia District; the edge where his own village stands. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, before opening them. The village he had grown up in looked the same, except it had more buildings and farmlands and gardens than before.

But that was okay, as long as his parents were still here, somewhere that he can still reach and remember.

The newly reborn man starts to run around the village, surprising people — familiar faces — with how fast and athletic he was. Despite his training with his fellow cadets and Keith Shadis, he can feel his legs starting to tire, already fatigued with how many miles he had to run in just a span of a few hours. The sun is setting in the horizon already, always and forever will be blocked by the walls that protect and shield them from the titans, so he continues his plight.

Marco’s gray eyes shine with hope, stopping at a quaint little house at the end of the street.

It was the Bodt home—  _ his old home. _

There were some differences with the stone home he had once grew up on — some stone bricks covered with moss and vines — such as the ageing of the stone bricks, overgrown vine plants, a roof that is now full of rust. Needless to say, it is neglected.

He wonders whether or not they were still at home, or if they have left home to try and overcome their grief, but his eyes see someone lighting up the entire house with a new light source that was not fire. He raises a brow, tilting his head; do people not use fire anymore in this year?

He shakes his head; he can ask his questions once he has a reunion with his parents.

If they believe that he is their long lost son, that is.

“Seriously, why did I have to grow as old as this world?” Marco asks himself, scratching at his neatly-trimmed hair. He sighs, “Well, here goes nothing.” With a shaking body, he knocks on the door, hoping whoever answers is either Cammi, Mia, or perhaps both.

He wishes that they can recognize their boy still.

However, his expectations were subverted when a young boy, who was his age when he joined the cadet corps, at the age of thirteen. He has dark hair, a tanner skin tone, and a green set of eyes. Understandably, there is a look of confusion and apprehension in his eyes. He hides behind the door, suspicious of this unknown visitor. “Who are you?”

Marco stares at this child— was he adopted by his parents after he…? He swallows down the feelings of hurt hiding deep within himself— he was the one who had abandoned his own family to chase his dreams, after all. “I’m… an old friend of your mothers’, Cammi and Mia Bodt. Say, are they home right now?”

The young boy stares at him, still hiding, his eyes and hair only visible. “They  _ are _ here...”

“Good! Can you call your parents for me? I  _ really _ need to talk to them.”

“Why?”

“I just… I just want to talk to your parents, that’s all.”

“Callan, who’s at the door?” A sweet and gentle voice calls from the inside, and Marco gasps— it was his mother, still as sweet and soft spoken as ever.

The young boy — Callan, it seems — takes a peek back from the inside. “There’s a man here asking for you two!”

“... Alright, we’ll take care of it, Callan.” Mia’s grimmer and quieter voice answers, and he can’t believe that he is hearing Cammi and Mia’s voices again; he never thought he would get to hear it three years after he left his home. His lips tremble as he fights back the tears in his eyes, as he is face-to-face with his mothers, the people whom he had left to chase after his ambition of becoming a MP.

Cammi has Marco’s onset of freckles and his gray eyes, but her hair is a golden blonde one, like Armin’s or Christa’s. He had inherited his father’s ebony dark hair, which he had abhorred when he was a child— he did not like the way his father would hit mother, would hit him when he was bored and drunk. That was why he loved Mia more; a woman with neon-blue eyes and snow-white hair, who taught him how to be confident and to have a sense of himself.

When their eyes meet Marco’s, they widen in recognition.

He refuses to cry, relieved that they could still recognize the son that they have lost years ago.

“Mar— Marco…?” Cammi asks, a hand to her face, as she takes a step forward with a hand extended, followed by Mia. “You’re here? W-With us?  _ Alive?” _

Marco smiles, holding his mother’s hand. “I guess I am.”

It was proof enough for the elder woman to wrap her arms around her long lost son, crying, tears streaming down her face. Mia joins in the embrace (because she is easily overwhelmed), also crying tears of joy and longing that the boy she grew up with is back, aged and matured.

Marco is glad to be back as well, back in the village he had left. Tears start to escape his eyes, as he hugs both his mothers.

“I miss you, too.”

* * *

“You don’t use fire as a source of light anymore?” Marco asks, staring at the light glowing from above them with such a bright glow.

“We still do, especially when we go down to the basement”, Mia replies, busily cooking dinner for four.

“Where did you get such a unique light from?”

Cammi smiles, back in her rocking chair as she starts to knit. “It is an ore that the scouts have found four years ago when they took down a very,  _ very _ large titan.”

He raises a brow, “Four years ago? How many years has it been since I was…  _ gone?” _

Mia looks forlorn. “Four years.”

Marco sighs, “It seems that there have been a lot of technological advances in the span of years I was away.”

Callan stares at him with curious eyes. “You’re the ‘Mar-Mar’ that Cammi and Mia keep talking about, aren’t you?”

He blushes, remembering that old nickname. “H-How did you know that nickname?!”

Cammi laughs, “I apologize, Marco, you were and will still be our little Mar-Mar.”

Marco groans, but there is no malice in it. “Mother—!”

“Come on, we know that you love that name”, Mia replies, continuing to stir the pot with a ladle. “You just have to admit it.”

He laughs, “Never!” He focuses back on Callan, who is still staring at him with fascination. “So… were you taken in by my parents?”

He fiddles with his fingers subconsciously. “Y-yeah...”

“Where… are your parents, then?”

“They were— they were killed in an ambush in the Underground City a few years back”, he replies, “I was nine at the time.”

Marco gives him a look of pity. “Ah… I am sorry.”

“The Queen’s program helped orphan kids like us find a home and a place to stay”, Callan explains, “and your parents just… happened to take me in.”

“Eh? Queen? What about the King?”

“It turns out he was fake, as the news said.”

“Then… who is the Queen now?”

“A young girl named Historia Reiss; she is just about your age.” Cammi replies, continuously knitting.

_ Historia Reiss, huh? _ He thinks to himself, saving that name for later.

He wants to gather more information to satiate his curious mind— he is in the year 854, and it seems a  _ lot _ has changed during the course of years. “So… Trost District seems to be safely guarded.”

“Yes, the gate was repaired three years ago, along with Wall Maria and Shiganshina District.”

His eyes widened. “They already took back Wall Maria?”

“Yes...” Cammi’s face is grim. “But at the cost of 199 soldiers.”

His blood runs cold as fear and panic settle into his skin, remembering a few bittersweet memories where Eren declared that he will join the scouts, with Mikasa and Armin following him in his stead. “Mother, Mia, do you know someone named ‘Eren Jaeger’?”

“Hm? Yeah, he’s really famous amongst the people of Paradis”, Mia replies, dousing out the flames, deeming her cooking done. “He’s the titan shifter everyone praises about.”

He sighs in relief; that suicidal maniac is still alive. Then Marco blinks,  _ Paradis? _ Is this what they call this place now? To be honest, with titans, traitors, and a corrupt government, he would never classify a place like this as a paradise. “Paradis?”

“That is what people from outside the walls call us”, Mia replies with a frown, pouring her newly cooked vegetable soup into four bowls.

“People  _ outside _ of the walls?” He has never heard anything like it; people outside the walls, a civilization outside of these cramped and concrete walls. It was  _ unheard of. _

Then he remembers what Reiner told Annie to make her take off his ODM gear.

How they were an evil race.

Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie came from outside the walls.

To be honest, he was not surprised by that revelation.

“Yes, we don’t have much details, but the Survey Corps have uncovered the real reason why we were trapped in the walls, from the titans.”

“So… it seems we’re in an era of peace.”

Callan was the one who corrects him with his inference. “Not really.”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“Callan, have you been reading adults’ newspapers again?” Cammi scolds him.

He looks guilty, “I’m sorry, Cammi, but I can’t just stay ignorant! The man who helped me find my way is in the frontlines!”

Marco stares at him, “Frontlines?”

“Callan”, Mia gives the younger boy a warning glare, and he immediately closes his mouth.

“Wait, what did he mean by frontlines? What’s happening?”

“It is best if you do not know what is coming to this world”, Cammi replies with a sad stare.

“What  _ is _ happening? I need to know!”

“Stay here for a few more days, Mar-Mar”, Mia says with a pleading look, as she serves dinner for the newly formed and unified Bodt family. “We miss you, and we don’t know how you came back to us.”

Marco looks down at his hands; his right hands are full of teething scars, while his left looks clean, like it is untouched by titan hands. “To be honest, me neither.” He turns back to Callan. “Who was the man who saved you? What does he have to do with being in the ‘frontlines’? Are you saying that he is currently battling with titans outside the wall?”

“Titans are all but gone”, Cammi replies, halting with her knitting so she could eat with her wife and children. “The Scout and Garrison Regiments wiped them all out.”

“There are no more titans?”

“We may never know. Now eat your food, I don’t want anyone to be talking about the grim events that had happened since you were…  _ gone, _ Mar-Mar.”

_ Gone, _ not dead.

But he was sure that he was dead.

Yet why is he here with his family, his body comparable to a nineteen year old entering adulthood, eating his favorite kind of vegetable soup today?

Why does he have the scars of the past, not fading from his skin?

“So… Callan, you never told me who helped you find your way to the Queen’s program.”

“One of the scouts, a guy with brown hair and eyes. He always has this resting arrogant smirk on his face whenever I see him with the others.”

Marco’s eyes widened; the traits were quite familiar to a certain someone he wants to get back with. “... And his name?”

“Jean. Jean Kirschtein.”

His gray eyes shine with realization. “Jean… he joined the scouts?”

“You knew him?”

“Yes, he was my… he was my best friend, back when I was a cadet.”

“Oh, so  _ you’re _ the person he kept mentioning.”

“Hm?”

“Mister Kirschtein usually visits us, just to see how little Callan is doing”, Mia replies with a soft smile. “He keeps telling him stories about you, about how selfless and inspiring you were, and how you were the reason why Jean gave up his old dreams to become an MP and became part of the Survey Corps instead.”

“He… gave up becoming an MP?” Marco repeats, confused— why would Jean do that? He had strived to become part of the Top 10 to get into the MP’s, and the both of them have always dreamt of a world where they are having a safe, quiet life in Wall Sina. “But… he is safe, right? When was the last time he visited this household?”

“A few months ago, before he left”, Cammi recounts, “but before I tell you, start eating your dinner; I do not want you dying on me again.”

He smiles, “Of course, mother.” He takes a few minutes to eat, trying to calm his thoughts.

Jean Kirschtein, a boy who has always wanted a safe life inside of the furthest wall, signed up on the most dangerous regiment to be in? Why did he do that? Did he truly do it to honor Marco’s death? Or was it because of something else?

He chews his food, avoiding making his right side do anything for the time being. He didn’t know why, but now he has an aversion to people or anything hitting his right side. He is still afraid.

Marco turns to look at his mother, his eyes betraying the slightest hint of worry he is feeling for his friend right now. “Mother, did Jean Kirschtein say anything to you before he left?”

“Well, he said that he will be gone for quite a while, and Callan should not worry about him.”

“So… why did he leave?  _ Where _ did he leave?”

“We do not know why he left… but he and the other scouts left for Marley.”

“Marley?”

“It is a long story, and another of the secrets that the scouts have uncovered with the help of Eren Jaeger.” Cammi replies.

That settles it; in a few days, he will leave the safe haven of his home and Utopia District to go back to the place where he had met Jean. He will have to meet with Keith Shadis, the man that has trained him for two years, and ask him how have the others, his  _ comrades, _ been in these past few years, and ask him all about Marley. Perhaps he can request that he be trained once again; he thinks that he is rusty with his ODM gear and combat, especially in this newer and heavier body.

“I… see.” Marco looks back at Callan, eating vegetable soup enthusiastically. “What was Jean like to you?”

Callan thinks for a moment, before giving him a vague reply. “He is like an older brother to me.”


	2. this chapter is probably an equivalent to all those anime fillers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco meets up with Keith Shadis, and exposition starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a lot shorter and uneventful for the time being, and that's probably because i spent WAY too much time trying to write how Marco will react and adjust to his new life. so him meeting Jean and the others again wouldn't happen until the next chapter. and the reason why i haven't wrote their meeting is because i will be in PAIN writing this next sequence of events.

**ii.**

After a few more days of spending quality time with his family (helping Mia pick out the weeds and pull out vegetables from their garden for food, letting Cammi knit his clothes for him like she used to, and helping Callan with his own sorts of problems, such as the so-called bullies who would never leave him alone; he dissolves the situation quite quickly, though), he decides that he is too impatient to wait a little longer. He needs to know the status of his former friends now.

(Wait, are they his ‘former’ friends if they have not really parted personally at all?

Was death a personal reason to part ways with friends?)

He has made time for his thoughts and his relationship with his newly formed family, loving the days he had spent with his mothers and new younger brother, who all looked happy to be with him. It took them some time, but they managed to be such a happy family again. He loved seeing Cammi knit; loved listening to Mia hum whilst she cooks; loved Callan for being overly fond of him.

However, his dreams are plagued by his death caused by the three traitors, still remembering how much pain and agony he had felt as he could  _ feel _ himself being eaten, devoured in half by such a small mouth.

He did not want to go through that kind of torture again— he  _ needs _ to be stronger this time, if he wants to meet Jean again.

The young man wonders how Jean looks like now— he must look like a regular nineteen year-old boy, but if he joined the scouts along with Eren… he had heard that becoming part of the Survey Corps has been such a taxing feat, to the point some recruits look older than what they are supposed to look like.

He stares up at the ceiling every night, wondering what his best friend would look like after four years have passed. He imagines that he must have a dozen body scars littered over his body if he had joined such a dangerous job, or perhaps even dark circles around his eyes. His already long face must have matured and grown overtime, and maybe… maybe he’s trying to grow his own facial hair. He and Jean had joked about the latter growing a stubble or a beard, with the former saying he could never grow one successfully.

He smiles; he may be losing his bet now. Jean is quite determined, and that is one of the features that Marco had actually liked about him; made him so fond of the other.

Sometimes he cries at night at the thought of leaving his best friend for dead, at not having stopped him from joining the Survey Corps. He wonders  _ why _ Jean chose to abandon his own ambitions, why he risked his own life rather than playing it safe.

He wonders if his friend is okay, in this place called ‘Marley’. It seems to be a subject of apprehension and grim remarks from the village folk and his own two mothers, who refuse to talk to him about what it is, and what was outside of the walls.

(Though, he did hear something about a ‘train track’ having been built by the scouts  _ outside _ the walls— how did they even gather resources and material to create such a thing that sounds so advanced?)

He dreams about his friends sometimes too, well, more like relieving memories with friends who are all but gone, or out of his reach at the moment. He remembers that timid yet smart Armin, and wonders if he has become more confident of himself and his skills. He remembers the quiet yet devoted Mikasa, and he hopes that she has found happiness in her life and she is safe. He remembers the determined yet temperamental Eren, who had managed to achieve a Top 5 spot in the graduates. He wishes that he is cautious and alright.

There are so many people he missed, and  _ wants _ to meet again; Connie, Sasha, Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Krista, Ymir,  _ Jean. _

A bad feeling rises within him.

What if something bad has happened to his friends?

He sighs, rolling over his bed— that is  _ not _ something that he should be thinking about.

His friends will be  _ fine. _

His friends will still be  _ alive, _ when they come back.

Whether they will come back at all.

Marco just… wants to rest for the night, to feel fresh in the morning. The gods know he needs it, for being thrown into this world once again, aged and with a second chance. He is  _ not _ going to waste the chance that he had been given. This time, he will live life to the fullest, let himself die a noble death rather than being known as the boy who was gnawed in half by a titan without anyone even noticing it.

Let him see Jean again— the last time he had seen him, he had been fending off titans, far away for Marco to see.

He tries comforting himself with the fact that he will see him again if he gets his parents’ permission to find Keith Shadis once again.

It takes him a little longer to get his parents’ permission to set out into the cadet corps’ barracks, for understandable reasons. But he was not a child anymore, nor was he an angsty teen that is riddled with a lot of hormones; he’s an adult now, even if he doesn’t know how to act like one and he doesn’t have much time coping with the new changes in his body.

Yet, he gets the permission to leave the village again. He didn’t want to leave his parents again, but he is sure that Callan will keep them company as he and Keith Shadis start training with each other again.

Marco Bodt, a newly enlightened man who has experienced what it was like getting eaten by a titan, betrayed by whom he thought were friends, and died brutally, is now about to leave this village once again, in search for his old friends, and whether or not they are safe and sound.

He climbs on the horse he had used to ride on when he was a child, a bag of clothes and food to his discretion.

“Mar-Mar, here, have a sweater that I’ve made for you”, Cammi says with a sorrowful look, giving him a beautifully-knitted sweater. Sometimes, Marco is amazed that his own mother, a skilled weaver, could accomplish such a task in such a short time. “It’s going to get cold out there.”

Marco takes it from her hands, loving how warm and soft it was. He smiles at her, “Thank you, mother.”

Callan gives him a small smile. “Please be safe, Mar-Mar.”

“I definitely will, thank you.” Then a question enters Marco’s mind. “Hey, does being part of the cadets ever cross your mind?”

Callan shrugs, “Not really, I’d rather live my days out here in peace.”

Mia nods, patting her son’s back. “Which is the  _ best _ option.”

Marco laughs, “Alright, alright. I’ll be going now, but don’t forget that I love you three.”

His mothers and younger brother, with wistful smiles, take turns waving at him.

“If you die again, we  _ will _ dig up your remains and hit your skull with one of your bones!” Mia replies threateningly, and he chuckles again; he has always admired her certain callousness, and it reminds him of someone he wants to meet again.

He pulls on the horse’s reins; he has gotten a little rusty with riding a horse, remembering how he had strained a lot when he was learning how to ride. But he can manage, it’s just that it has been a number of years since hopping upon one. He can’t help but think of Jean, not the Jean who has strived to be in the Top 10 to go to the MP’s, the Jean that joined the scouts and risked his life to attempt to find out the secret of the titans.

Marco still finds it hard to believe that his best friend gave up on his dreams; it just seemed so… out of character, like he had missed something crucial.

He shakes those thoughts off his head— he’ll find out the details surrounding why he joined after he met up with Keith Shadis.

With a final wave of goodbye towards his parents, and younger brother, he gallops away from his village in his horse once again.

He doesn’t look back; he knows that with the distance he is galloping through, the village is all but a single speck of color, and he is aware that once he comes back, they will still be there.

* * *

“This is… quite a surprise.” Keith muses as he serves a cup of tea for he and Marco Bott, who was fatigued from travelling a number of hours, even with a horse at his discretion. Much to the young man’s relief, the Cadet Corps’ barracks are still in the same location in that distant memory. It is hard to believe that he had been living here for two years, but his memories are not quite reliable. “You look…  _ older.” _

“Before you ask, no, I do not know how or why I grew up so suddenly.” Marco replies with an exasperated sigh, taking a sip of the warm tea. “I was in this void, and it spat me out into Trost District. In 854.”

“Interesting”, Keith replies. He does not look like that intimidating and disciplinary man who made Sasha run for five hours; he looked resigned and tired, as if he knows of his fate in the near future. With a stressed sigh, he also takes a sip of his tea. “How are you now, Cadet Bodt?”

“I am faring well, actually. I met my family again.”

“Why didn’t you stay with them, then?”

He puts his cup down, his lips pressed into a serious line. “I want answers, and you’re the only person I know right now who can answer them.”

Keith nods, “It seems you still have an attachment to your friends. I cannot blame you for worrying about them.”

“I have.” He looks around; he realizes that he and Keith Shadis were alone, no other cadet corps at the sight. “It’s… quiet around here.”

His former commandant sighs sadly. “Yes, my recent cadets have graduated a few months ago; many joined the scouts.”

Marco’s eyes widen at the revelation; four years ago, the Scout Regiment was considered as a suicide job, and only a handful of individuals were willing to risk their life to find out the secrets of the titans. But if he decides that his mother’s words were true — that titans were all eradicated — that means that somehow, in someway, the scouts’ popularity has ascended. “That is a surprise.”

“Yes, some have joined Jean’s squad after they proved to be skilled.”

His senses sharpen at the mention of Jean. He looks up from the table, slightly surprised.  _ “Jean _ is a squad leader now?”

“From what I have heard.” Keith looks solemn.

“Where are the scouts, then? In this place called Marley?”

“That is classified information that even I do not know; I am just their former teacher, nothing more and nothing else.”

“Then… what  _ can _ you tell me?” Marco asks, eager to learn more about how Jean is doing over the years he is without him.

“What you ask, I shall answer.”

“How has Jean Kirschtein been? Is he here? Is he okay?” Marco asks a spur of questions, hoping that his best friend (if he can classify the way he’s been feeling as a platonic way) is fine, not like how his imagination keeps giving him the worst case scenario.

“From what I heard, former Cadet Kirschtein is alright; he is not here, and that information is, once again, classified.”

Marco is on edge; so, he is not here right now, along with the other scouts. He bites his lower lip, trying to hide his anxiety, gripping on his shirt. “You mentioned that he has a squad now.”

“Indeed he does; his leadership improved quite drastically when he became a scout. He was the person who formulated a plan to defeat the Armored Titan at the Battle of Shiganshina.”

His face morphs into a surprise. “He did?”

“Yes, with the help of his friends and comrades, of course.”

Marco blinks, and smiles fondly. Jean has always been such a blunt and arrogant man, but he never doubted him becoming a good leader. “It seems that he has changed.”

_ “All _ my young cadets change”, Keith reminisces, staring at the ceiling with that glowing ore being used as a light source. “They need to adapt to their surroundings, and so they change. But sometimes, there are slight traces of their personality that they still retain, like if you have planted a seed of a tree and it grew so tall that it almost blocks the sun— yet it is still the same tree you planted in the soil.”

He gives his former mentor a concerned look. “What are you implying, Commandant?”

“All of them changed in subtle ways, to adapt to their environment.”

“Did… Jean change?”

“I do not see him as much; he is quite busy now that he is one of the commanding officers in the Survey Corps.”

“Ah… a job like that must be exhausting.” His eyes shift back to the wooden table, unaware that his cup of tea is cooling. “Since you do not know anything about Jean’s welfare, how are the others?”

“I can’t specify what you mean by ‘others’, Bodt.”

He chuckles, “All right, let’s do this individually— how is Eren?”

There is a sad tint in Keith’s eyes. “The last I have seen of him was four years ago, and all I could hear about him and the others are from rumors. Cadet Yeager has become popular, given by his nature of being a titan shifter, and every military official has been vying for the power of the Founding Titan hidden in his body. He disappeared from Paradis a few months ago, but I assume that he is in the same location as the scouts.”

He furrows his brows; he has never heard of this ‘Founding Titan’ before. “Founding Titan?”

“Believe me, Bodt, everything has become very,  _ very _ complicated since you were gone.”

“Mikasa?”

“Information about her is hard to receive; although now that we have access to the ocean, and therefore to other nations, rumors claim that she is a descendant of the Azumabito clan, a ruling clan from Hizuru.”

“Eh? A nation from across the sea?”

“It is hard to grasp that we reached the sea.” Keith agrees.

“What about Armin?”

“You… would not like this news.”

Marco becomes worried once again. “What happened?”

“You know about… Cadet Bertholdt Hoover, do you?”

He flinches, and his left arm instinctively clutches the right side of his face. Keith notices this, but he drops the subject. He looks away from Marco. “I… you know.”

“... Yes, but what about him?”

“Armin gained the power of the Colossal Titan a few years ago from former Cadet Hoover.”

“... That must be exhausting for Armin. I can’t imagine the pain he had felt to do that.” He wrings his hands, looking somber. This future does not seem to be looking forward to everyone greeting it with open arms. He wants to run towards wherever his friends are, and give them all big hugs, even if it does not erase the experience they have gone through. He just wants to comfort them, and that is enough.

And the rest of the conversation goes like that; he asks about Sasha, Connie, Ymir, and Christa — Historia — and Keith answers him with the best and most accurate answers that he has at the moment (he was actually surprised about Historia’s fate, becoming Queen of the Walls, and so is he about what happened to Ymir).

“Can I go see Historia?” He asks Keith; he wanted to visit his old friend, maybe catch up and comfort each other as well. “It looks like she’s the only person that I know is within arms’ reach.”

Keith shakes his head with regret. “Unfortunately, she is not in the palace as of now— she is in her private residences, whose location is completely guarded.”

Marco gives him a look of disappointment, before masking it with a smile. “Ah, I see.”

He learns about Marley, about the Battle for Wall Maria in detail, Hizuru, and technology that he has never heard of for the past four years.

So many comrades have died, and some others have lived on, with lasting scars.

He wonders if he could insert himself in their life— a life that has already been molded without him.

Did Jean forget him? Treat him like some sort of another fallen comrade?

Marco looks down,  _ Of course he does; I am but a memory from long ago. _

He didn’t even know how he died.

“May I… stay here in the barracks for a while, Mister Shadis?” He asks him, resuming to drink his tea. “I want to… train again.”

“Hm? But you graduated Top 6 of your class, Bodt! They gave you a squad of your own to lead as well!”

“Yes but— I think I may be rusty with using ODM gear by now. Besides, I have to adjust with my new body and its weight too.”

“Yes, you do look… older and taller than you used to.” He puts his cup down. “Fine, you shall begin your training again tomorrow. Is that sound for you?”

He nods, “Of course.”

“Good; you can go and rest now, no one is here at the moment.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mister Shadis.”

“... You are welcome, Mister Bodt.”

* * *

Thankfully, Keith seems to get the gist that he does  _ not _ want to sleep in the barracks where he used to bed in with the rest of his former friends. He is aware that many other cadets have slept in it over the years, but he is not sure if he is ready to hear the voices of all his old friends, alive and dead. He is sure that he will only start breaking down or make himself suffocate. Even the thought of going back here made him nauseous for a little while, and he had half a mind to turn back.

He stares at the ceiling for a while, imagining that they were stars across the sky. He never liked being alone, but hadn’t he been alone in that void for four years? It felt like he was only there for seconds, however.

Time is such a bitch.

But hey, at least Marco is… alive, if he truly does feel that way.

Maybe he should do something about living.

He closes his eyes for a moment, and his breathing even out as he drifts to the realm of dreams.

Marco has a dream tonight, and it wasn’t a happy one.

When he wakes, he is in whatever place that houses his old friends, especially Jean. They look older, yes, but that doesn’t mean that this is an accurate portrayal of them— they still look like their younger selves, except they have more matured faces and unreadable looks. Marco  _ always _ recognizes the way they look all the time; Jean has that simple, arrogant smirk on his face, Mikasa usually has a nonchalant frown, and Eren usually has his brows furrowed.

But they give him a look that completely  _ alarms _ him.

They’re looking at Marco like they have no memory or recollection of him, that they cannot recognize him nor his features, that he is  _ nobody. _

Just another fallen comrade that bit the dust and was forgotten about.

He tries to get them to remember him, by recounting the countless memories he still remembers that had him with them, about how they saved Christa — Historia — from the bandits in the forest, of how Sasha would sneak them some meat from the office, how they would have pillow fights when Keith wasn’t looking, of how they would guess the weather with Bertholdt’s sleeping positions, those kinds of funny and unforgettable things.

Yet they still stare at him with unreadable looks, like he had spouted nothing of importance; like  _ he _ was not important to all of them.

And they turned their backs on him, and started walking away.

Marco tries to catch up— he really does, he just wants to see his friends again, to see Jean with that light smirk upon his lips, or that bashful look whenever Marco compliments him on his skills.

He did not want to see Jean look at him with contempt; he wishes that he could see a sincere smile cross his friend’s lips one more time.

That is not going to happen in his dreams any time soon.

As his old companions turn to another corner, leaving their friend behind, the floor from underneath him disappears, and he is eaten by the void.

Only to wake up in his bed, breaking into cold sweat as he breathes in and out.

His left hand clutches his right face, as if he can feel the scars emanating from that side.

Marco looks at the window, to see that it is still night and there is still a giant cluster of stars in the skies. He takes a minute to calm himself down, muttering, “It’s just a dream, Marco, it won’t happen in real life.”

Or will it?

* * *

He starts training with his ODM gear once again the day after he returned to this place; much to his relief, his skills hadn’t been quite as subpar as he expected it to be, and he can still fly through the air with the weight of ODM gear on his legs. It had taken him some getting used to adjusting his weight with the ODM gear, like old times, but when he does follow the tune of the gear, and the sound gas being released and hooks in the air, he feels like a bird soaring through the sky.

Marco feels  _ free; _ it is a sensation that Eren usually describes when he uses ODM gear, but he never actually felt it.

He feels like a caged bird taking to the skies, escaping its cramped walls and limited food, to search for something to call home out in the far open.

Marco loves the way his hair tousles in the wind, the breeze that flows past him as he zips up and down, trying to get the hang of this.

His mouth lets out a cheer of joy as he lands on the sand of the barracks; Keith stares at him with a delighted glint in his eye, despite his face a resting frown.

“It seems that you haven’t been rusty at all”, Keith says with a raised brow. “You are still as accurate and as levelled as always, even way back when.”

“Thank you, Commandant Shadis”, he says with a grateful nod. “But I’m sure that I’m still behind the others in terms of actual skills.”

“Yes, I understand that feeling”, Shadis agrees, “but they have years to gather expertise and find out which skill can be absolutely beneficial for them, while you… did not.”

Marco cringes a bit, and he sighs, “Yeah, I think I understand what you mean. If the scouts come back, I’ll… I’ll join them.”

Ketih gives him a look of surprise. “You’re neglecting your dream of becoming an MP?”

“I can’t become part of the Military Police if Jean has already chosen his path and became a scout. I want to learn more about the outside world, and it seems that the scouts have seen it themselves. They have seen too much to the point it changed them.”

“I… can’t disagree with that.”

“And I want to accompany Jean, which I failed to do last time.”

Keith sighs a little fondly. “You two really don’t want to separate, huh?”

“Not at all.” Marco’s eyes shift to the floor. “When… do you think they’ll be able to come back?”

“A few weeks from now, if all went according to plan.”

“‘According to plan’?”

“They will depart in Wall Sina, when the time comes for them to return.”

“Will you… help me get to Wall Sina to see them?”

Keith looks down at him, and a small smile touches his lips. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fatherly Keith Shadis? fatherly Keith Shadis.


	3. "eldians? marleyans? man, 854 has weird terminology nowadays"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean is so sick of this shit, ya know.
> 
> TW: DISSOCIATION, MENTIONS OF EATING DISORDERS (or, uh, vomiting, ig)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and HERE is the long-awaited reunion! i enjoyed writing this, and as you can see, it's noticeably longer than the rest. this is the chapter where EVERYTHING now bridges into the canon. also, THANK YOU for your very kind comments! i am very overwhelmed by how this fic is being received, and i'm rly sorry i haven't been responding cause UGH MY HEART CAN'T TAKE THE LOVE, but if it comforts you i keep staring and reading at the comments, and they have been really motivating for me, so thank you <333

**iii.**

A few days of having only his former mentor as his company does all kinds of damages to his psyche, it seems.

Keith Shadis is a pleasant man, yes, but if he keeps only talking to him for a few more days it  _ will _ make Marco go insane. He enjoys the moments of tranquility and calm that he provides, of course; serving him tea and breakfast every morning whilst calling him for lunch and dinner once he is done training himself to get used to the feeling of ODM gear around his legs, and they usually have small conversations, which is usually almost always about his own progress.

The young man is adjusting to his second life, but he knows that life has a few more tricks up his sleeve.

Keith has promised him that when the scouts return from whatever it is on the other side of the ocean, he will call him and make him pack his belongings up. He has a dozen connections in the Military Police, and he intends not to waste those said connections.

“Are you sure they will be fine with me entering Wall Sina?” Marco asks one day while they have lunch together; cadet rations do not taste very delicious, but he forces himself to savor his meal.

“I’ll take matters about that in my own hands”, Keith says. “You have been bouncing your leg underneath the table for the past few days— too impatient to wait?”

Marco’s face turns red, “I— um— I’m getting really worried about Jean and the others now!”

“Can it, cadet; I know that you have stray feelings for Kirschtein.”

His blush goes even redder. “E-Eh?! Commandant, where did that assumption come from?!”

Keith huffs, the closest thing he has ever come to a laugh. “Oh please, every time you look at him, you have stars in your eyes!”

“I-I do?!” He didn’t think that anyone would notice it!

“You think you were being inconspicuous, were you not?”

He turns into a blushing mess, “I— Um— I—”

“Save your excuses; it will not save you of how I am well aware of your crush on Jean.”

Marco sighs, putting his heads on the table. “I thought I was getting  _ so _ good at hiding my feelings for him.”

“You  _ are, _ to others, but I have very sharp eyes, young man.”

“You are a  _ horrible _ commandant, sir.”

“Ha, if you think that revealing you have a crush on Mister Kirschtein is the worst thing I could possibly do.”

“You can make it up to me by helping me get to Jean as fast as I can.”

Keith takes a sip of his tea, absent-mindedly humming. “Nile Dok still has not given me a signal to go to the capital with you yet, Mister Bodt.”

He sighs, “I  _ know, _ I just wish that Jean would come home sooner.”

“You truly are devoted to him.”

“You keep saying that, Mister Shadis.”

“I’m just so… nonplussed that you and Kirshtein have the same train of thought when it comes to each other.”

“Pardon?”

“Mister Kirschtein gave up on his dreams and joined the scouts just so he could fight for you.”

His face starts to redden again. “A-Ah, yes, I keep hearing that, and I’m still flattered.”

Keith nods, “If you get to see him again, you should disclose your feelings for him.”

Marco’s eyes widen; he, revealing his own personal and intimate feelings to Jean, who has never felt the same way about him? The dumb teen has forever been head over heels for Mikasa, the indifferent girl who follows Eren everywhere, thinking that he still has a chance with her. He would always complain about how Eren’s taking her away from him to Marco, and all he could do was roll his eyes and chuckle at his envious delusions. But something inside him is gnawing him slowly but surely, making its way across his skin like worms trying to escape and see the sun for the first time.

Ever since he has been a young boy, he is aware that he likes guys, and seeing fit men in their uniforms would always give him pause. Especially during cadet training, he had to avert his gazes from his male friends whenever they undress, as he shyly takes off his own clothes. Jean was the only person he could watch undress himself, and every time he saw him do it, it had sent shivers up his spine.

But he does not know whether or not Jean likes guys— the only thing he shows is his patent attraction to Mikasa, who Marco  _ knows _ will turn him down if he ever asks her out.

Damn it, why did he have to fall for such a pretty boy, who must be  _ way _ prettier and more handsome now that a handful of years have gone by?

The thought of seeing him again makes him impatient and anxious at the same time; his scars are riddled all over his body, and from the various mixed stares he had gotten from the village folk and people he has encountered along the way, which made him feel even more self conscious. Why did that void give him scars that mark what caused his death in the first place? Was it to mock him, to make others laugh at him now that he is back?

He knew that bringing himself back to life will have precautions.

The black-haired man scratches his hair, feeling quite tense as of now. “I don’t know, I’m pretty sure he has other things to tend to and concern about other than me.”

“My old cadets have other concerns, but they make time for love— all kinds of love, whether romantic, filial, or platonic. You may have a chance.”

“But he seems to be busy at the moment.”

Keith gives him a look. “He won’t be as intensely busy once he gets back, though.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not really.”

_ “Please _ don’t let me get my hopes up, Mister Shadis.”

“I was only trying to comfort you and your ongoing crisis, Mister Bodt.”

“... Was I being subtle this time?”

“You’ve been spacing out for a few minutes, Bodt.”

He blinks a little, trying to collect himself. “O-Oh.” Marco sighs a little, “Maybe it’s just because… I’m self conscious of how Jean will see me. Of how he will see me with all these…  _ hideous _ scars scattered all across the right side of my body.”

“People have their own set of scars, young man.”

“Yes, but at least they are easier to hide!”

“I don’t think that people like Jean would judge you for your scars.”

“You don’t know him well enough. I—” He looks down, “I don’t know him now, not anymore.”

“... Yes, he has certainly matured, but there are still some aspects down there you still know; some are hidden in plain sight, and others… well, you have to dig deeper to get your goal.”

Marco scratches the back of his head, “I supposed that I’ll have to get used to this new timeline, and how my friends changed. I’m still my same old self.”

“If that is what you say so.”

Marco looks out the window, staring at the sunny blue sky ahead of them. “The skies are so beautiful today.”

“Weather forecast says that it is going to rain soon a few days later.”

“Then let’s enjoy what we have today, then.” Marco finishes his breakfast as he goes to his room to retrieve his ODM gear to train.

* * *

The clouds that are accompanying them are nothing but an emotionless gray, like its color was seeped out of its own texture.

“It’s going to be raining once we get to Paradis.” Commander Hanji Zoe announces to the numerous scouts in the airship; late at night, they were celebrating, but when early morning strikes along with a gunshot resonating in the entire vehicle, they were all locked in a somber silence that still lasts today.

Jean Kirschtein was leaning on the cold, metal walls of the airship— he cannot help but compare it to his still-beating heart. He knows that he shouldn’t be comparing his own losses to others (other people’s losses took a heavy toll on them, and he feels guilty about getting upset with his own losses), but  _ god, _ it still hurts, having  _ another _ crucial part of him being taken away.

He had to break Connie and Eren up from a — one-sided — brawl, along with Mikasa, because he really  _ did not _ want to deal with their shit now.

There was a time where he would take the chance to try and fight Eren, but he is quite aware that this Eren is not the same person he once used to know— calm, too tactical, too emotionless to be the same person. It was like the Eren they knew from four years ago was replaced with a husk.

He turned from a suicidal maniac to a genocidal maniac.

Jean wanted to turn back time, to the good old days; when Eren can still feel and they would batter and bruise each other, when Sasha and Marco are still alive and they would be teasing each other along with Connie, when he was not stressed with work and helping Hanji with the help of Connie and Levi.

He may not be as exhausted as Hanji, but he would be lying if he’s saying he’s not stressed out.

The young man tunes out people’s hushed conversations — especially Floch, that bastard — his eyes dull and his pupils small, still processing the situation that he was put in. Even if he tries to get himself to listen, the world becomes smaller and smaller, like a cramped box, all of the images that he can process are all blurry and bleary; he can see Connie slouching over Sasha’s corpse, definitely still in shock.

He wants to reach out and hold him, hug him tightly— but he’s not sure whether or not he would react in a hostile manner.

He empathizes with him, he really does; he lost his best friend, Marco Bodt, who had made him a better man and made him realize the errors within himself, and slowly but surely tried correcting these traits.

He… never knew how he died; he just sees his empty-eyed corpse lying in his nightmares, and he would wake up in cold sweat, the world taunting him for never figuring out what had happened to his friend.

It was a mystery that he still had not solved until this very day, and he  _ refuses _ to give up on solving it.

Instead of involving himself with Hanji and the others — he lets Armin take his lead — he involves himself in replaying certain memories with Sasha Blouse, to honor her death.

She and Connie were the first people to help him cope with Marco’s death, and happily accepted him into their little friend group. They… helped him with his goal of becoming a better person for Marco, and he was always involved in their stupid little shenanigans. He loved them just as much as Marco, and they were all torn apart. Connie doesn’t even look or act the same anymore, and it has only been  _ hours _ since the death of Sasha. Is this what it means to be, on the wrong side of fate? Taking loved one by loved one, until he himself will live a long but shitty life? He wants to fight back against destiny, to revive Sasha, the only light in their now miserable and shitty fucking lives.

He could not even look at the children who snuck on the airship— especially that brown-haired girl. She shot Sasha, but she herself looked too much like Sasha that it hurt just giving her a small glance.

God, how will  _ Niccolo _ react to the news?

To be honest, when he and Connie first saw Niccolo interact with Sasha alone and in private, they thought he would hurt her just for being an Eldian and Niccolo being a Marleyan (the so-called ‘perfect’ race, from their perspective), but… it seems that the young man has gained genuine feelings for her, and she as well. They were a good match for each other, but it seems that fate wishes to lead her thread astray.

She was gone too soon, like all their other comrades.

He wanted to see Sasha, her cheeks full of Niccolo’s cooked meal, giving everyone a delighted smile.

They will not be seeing her smile anymore; it is dead like her.

Jean lets out a choked sob escape his lips, and he hopes nobody else in this room heard it. It should’ve been  _ him— _ he could’ve pushed her out of the way, but he was frozen in place like he was some fucking kid who was afraid of a goddamn shotgun. God, he was an  _ adult _ with his own squad, and he chose to stay frozen over some kid with a gun aimed to kill someone.

What the  _ hell _ did Marley teach those kids?

Whatever; she’ll learn of the consequences of her actions sooner or later. Hopefully sooner than later, she needed a lesson.

A finger reaches out to tap his shoulder, but he could not bear to react to such a menial thing; it was like everything was so foggy, and he was only watching these people instead of actually inserting himself into real life, and not just some fantasy. Like he was monitoring and observing, his movements not even conscious.

“Jean, are you okay?” A soft voice that he can only recognize as Armin’s reaches his ears, but it was muffled.

“As fine as ya want me to be”, he replies softly, not even registering the words coming out of his mouth right about now.

“Ah… you want to be left alone too. I’m sorry.” No,  _ I’m _ sorry Armin; I just can’t deal with this shit now, and his own mind is driven to the depths of his head. “I’ll just give you all the details I, Hanji and Levi talked about this day. I think you need to rest.”

“‘M fine.” Last night, he was feeling sluggish and fatigued, but now he can’t feel a thing, disassociated from his own emotions himself. What a fucking joke.

“Are you sure?”

“Slept like a baby here in Marley before that genocidal maniac picked ya guys up.” His words were a mumble, and he hated it— where did that confident and undeterred Jean run off to now?

“I see. Well, we’ll be— we’ll be landing in a few hours, and— and Hanji wants you and Connie to… help arrange a funeral for Sasha.”

Staring at her corpse for too long makes him want to break down sobbing and vomit out the remaining food he has left inside of him. He may not even touch Niccolo’s cooking for a while since he remembers how much Sasha loved it.

“Anything for my friend.”

The blonde takes this as an excuse to leave, and the Jean inside this hollow husk of a body sighs in relief. He’s not ready to talk to anyone yet; how is Armin so emotionally strong? He had just murdered hundreds of innocent civilians, while Jean himself wasn’t able to take down the Cart Titan all because of a kid pleading to spare her (well, she did not spare fellow scouts from the massacre they were galloping towards, as she had helped that turncoat hurl rocks at them). Despite his leadership and skills…  _ Armin _ should be the next commander, not him. It’s already too taxing to be in here, in this small, cramped airship.

And when he gets back, he’ll have to be surrounded by military officials, journalists, citizens, all those wanting to congratulate the scouts for waging war and winning with Marley.

Getting fucked over by the world was  _ not _ how he wanted his life to end.

“We’ll be landing in an hour or two”, Onyakopon says, but he does not care, even when the island of Paradis comes into view from across the seas. He had been initially mesmerized with the sea at first; he had realized the reason why Armin always wanted to see the sea. It was so beautiful and bright and it shimmers like a thousand suns are hidden in its sparkling waters. Now, even up above the air where the view is said to be beautiful, it looks so… plain. Dull, even.

Seems that he could not take the time to marvel at how beautiful the world is when the two people who has seen all hope in the world are fucking dead. One is just ash and the other is going to be buried six feet underground.

Why did he and the others have to survive for four more years?

* * *

_ What a time to be alive, four years today, _ Marco thinks quietly to himself, staring at the misty gray clouds, knowing that there will be a downpour soon.

Keith emerges from his office. “Mister Bodt—”

“You can call me Marco, Mister Shadis.” He says kindly between ragged breaths; putting his hands on his knees as he finished yet another day of training with his ODM gear. Just in time too— it starts to drizzle, and Keith ushers him back inside before he could catch a cold or a fever.

The aged man smiles at him. “And  _ you _ can call me Keith, got it? Now, I got something to tell you.”

He looks up at his mentor, “What is it, Mister Sha—  _ Keith?” _ Honestly, the name felt foreign on his tongue, but he will grow to get used to it, like he always does.

“Have you seen a strange flying vehicle in the sky when you were training?”

“Er...” Yes, he did— when he was perching on the make-shift forest behind the barracks, he managed to spot a strange flying contraption across the sky— he had never seen anything like it, but he continued on training. It seems to be headed up north, so it  _ must _ be a new invention heading towards Wall Sina. “Why yes, I did. Is the strange contraption supposed to be important?”

Keith nods, “It is— it seems that the scouts have returned from beyond the walls and sea.”

Marco’s eyes widen, “The  _ sea _ exists?” Armin  _ was _ right about his theories and fantasies— now he feels a little bad for discrediting an idea that was actually true. “And the scouts went  _ across _ it?”

“They did, but that’s another story I’m sure that your friends are willing to tell you.”

“Will Jean be there?”

“He may be, but we’ll only get to know if you put on your best clothes, hop on your horse. We’ll be galloping right through Wall Sina in no time.”

Excitement ripples in his insides, and he grows a little impatient— he will meet his friends and Jean again, and he will— he will—

His excited beam falters a little.

He will  _ what? _

Marco will confess his feelings to Jean, who probably forgot all about him? Absolutely  _ not. _

(He knows that he is being such a coward right now, and he was well aware that Jean joined the scouts to conserve his memory.)

But even if he had confessed, it's either they would not last long as a couple or Jean turns him down and their blooming friendship will be cut from the stalk. He did not want that to happen to him and the man he considers his best friend.

Marco wants himself to be happy, but… if  _ Jean _ cannot be happy with him, then he shouldn’t force himself.

He inhales, then exhales— forcing himself to calm down his steadfast beating heart.

Damn it; he will be a mess when he takes a small glance at the grown man. He might faint, even.

Oh come on, Marco, maybe he hasn’t changed at all, and has only grown taller.

Now  _ that _ would be quite damaging to his pride of being taller than the temperamental man.

_ Please, Jean wouldn’t be  _ **_that_ ** _ tall, _ Marco thinks, letting out a laugh as he prepares a saddle for his horse. Now, he would be getting cold and sick from the rain, but… eh, let the fever run its course. Catching Jean landing will be much more important than getting stopped by a measly sickness.

Keith gives him a civil look, “Are you ready to go?” He asks, hopping on his own horse.

Marco nods, a small smile on his face as he climbs on his stallion. He was shaking with excitement and impatience, like lightning has struck all parts of his body and is now humming a love song. “I’m ready. We can go now, Mister—  _ Keith, _ Keith.”

The bald man smiles, “All right, let’s go run along the rain.”

The freckled man smirks, “The rain won’t stop me from reaching my friends, you know.”

“More like it would not stop you from reaching Jean.”

He sputters, “Mister Keith!”

The old man laughs as his horse was the first to gallop onto the rain, and Marco follows after him, a carefree spirit finally revived by the hands of fate, all for the price of another one’s soul.

* * *

Nile Dok shakes his head, blocking the two from seeing the others in the just-landed airship. “Sorry Shadis, kiddo, but you can’t be here right now.”

A knot of disappointment started to tie itself onto Marco. He furrows his brows, staring at the dark-haired man, “Why, sir? My friends are on the other side!”

He shakes his head, sighing. “The scouts had… eight casualties, and one of them turned out to be a very good friend. They are currently carrying her off the ship right now.”

Marco stands still and silent, registering the words.  _ “Eight _ casualties? And only one body was retrieved? Who was it, Mister Dok?”

“Well, from the others, I’ve heard that she was shot in the airship in front of the others, and they didn’t have time retrieving the bodies back in Marley.”

Marley… so  _ that’s _ where Jean and the others have been all this time. His hypothesis and assumptions were correct; he wished it hadn’t been (and yet, it was so blindly obvious that they went to this place from beyond the walls). But now,  _ how _ did the scouts get a hold of an airship (when they are presumably very backwards with their own technology)  _ and _ had eight casualties themselves? “Were you… at  _ war _ with Marley?”

Nile sighs tiredly, “You can say that, kid.” He turns to his colleague. “Why’d ya bring a stranger here, Shadis?”

“This is not a stranger”, Keith says, patting Marco’s left shoulder, clearly aware of his aversion of doing things with his right side. “This is Marco Bodt, who wishes to see his friends leaving that metal death trap.”

The middle-aged man sighs tiredly. “How many times do I have to tell ya, Shadis? We can’t just invite strangers here! The scouts wanted to have a private moment to themselves, too!”

Marco frowns, getting quite impatient. “At least  _ tell _ me who died!” He hoped it was not the other girls he had come to know in his life, like Mikasa and Sasha; he did not want to see their dead bodies, did not want to know of the grisly fate that the god above had decided for them. It better not be them. It better  _ not _ be either one of them.

Nile stares at him, before his expression turns solemn. “Sasha Blouse. Her name was Sasha Blouse, and she was shot in the airship.”

Keith’s eyes widen in shock, his mouth agape as the recognizable name slips out of Nile’s mouth.

Marco’s entire world shatters, and his hopes come running down the drain.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have hoped it wasn’t the two of them, but what good will it do, now that Sasha, a girl with eyes full of joy and light, is already dead,  _ killed? _ He could not believe what he just heard— how could a girl as sweet and as innocent as Sasha, get murdered by another human? A titan, he can believe, but  _ another _ human wishing death upon this food-loving girl? It just seemed so… so impossible to grasp, to grasp at how much he dropped from the skies whilst they picked up another soul to reap.

The girl didn’t deserve it; didn’t deserve what fate and the world had given her.

He grits his teeth; he  _ didn’t even _ get to meet the cheerful young woman again.

He wants to think that he misheard it, but he has sharp hearing— he could never mishear anything from another one’s mouth.

“You’re— you’re sure that it had been Sasha?” He asks the man.

“Yes. They’re going to arrange a funeral for her tomorrow, and we’ll have a  _ lot _ of preparations to do for it. They will have to bury her a week from now, but it must hurt for the scouts. They plan on burying her in the Scouts’ Cemetery.”

Keith stares at the ground, forlorn. “I— I cannot believe this.”

Marco shakes his head, his entire body shaking. “Me… me neither.”

“Excuse me.” Marco and Keith turn around to find a tall man with blonde curls standing right behind them. He had a pensive expression on his face, and he looks like he had been up all night, without giving himself some shuteye. On his hands, he was holding a tray that was covered by a lid, and from how delicious the scent was, it must have been food, and the young man  _ must _ be a cook.

Nile clicks his tongue, irritated. “What do you want, Marleyan?”

Marco turns to the blond. So… this is a  _ Marleyan _ that people keep talking about? He seems like a pleasant and well-mannered man, and he even looks the same as the people around here, so why do people discriminate and call each other derogatory names?

“I’m just here to visit my… friends,  _ Eldian.” _ He replies, the last word almost a hiss, like he did not want to say it.

Marco raises a brow, Eldian? Man, 854 has some weird terminology nowadays.

“Look, Marleyan, the scouts wanted to have some alone time and—”

“No! I wish to see her now, Eldian!” The young man was trying to push Nile away from his path, but the older man persisted in blocking him on the way.

“Niccolo, you may be our chef who cooks delicious kinds of culinaries we’ve never heard of, but we’re now going to take orders from the likes of  _ you.” _

“I want to see her, Dok! I want to see Sasha again! I kept going all night long to serve her the perfect congratulatory dish when she gets back from Marley!”

Marco gives him a pitiful stare, trying to hide his anguish from deep inside. Poor man— he’ll have to be faced with the harsh truth right now. He hoped that Nile would be gentle with telling Niccolo — that was his name, right? — that Sasha… he could not even finish the sentence.

Nile raises a brow, before his eyes widen with realization. “Oh… so you’re— you’re—”

“Sasha’s boy, yes.”

Marco’s eyes widen, and he turns to Keith Shadis to see how he would react to the news; the older man gives the blonde a sad look, before averting his gaze to stare at the rainclouds gathered here today. Sasha… has —  _ had _ — a lover? It is poetic, that her own lover was a master of cooking cuisine and culinary arts; Sasha and he must’ve been lucky that they found each other in this fickle world, only for the world to tear the star-crossed lovers apart. Now he wouldn’t be able to witness their own love language together, since she had departed from the world too soon.

Nile gives him a look of pity. “I’m… I’m sorry, Niccolo.”

Niccolo’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about, Dok? Why must you be apologizing?”

The older man scratches his head, and sighs. “It… would be better if you see her for yourself, but please do not interrupt the scouts.”

The Marleyan’s hands start to shake, his eyes widening as he catches on to Nile's drift. “No… she can’t— Jean and Connie promised— what, no—”

“I… am afraid that it is the truth, Niccolo.” Nile looks down at the ground as thunder rumbles from the sky. “I am so sorry, she was a good woman.”

The young man drops to the ground, his body trembling whilst his hands are still — amazingly — holding the tray full of marvelous foods as he kneels out of shock. Marco wishes to join him too, but he feels…  _ guilty. _ The young man  _ clearly knows _ Sasha enough to be her actual boyfriend, and he was just— what? Just another former friend that was taken from this world too soon. He did not know Sasha now, since he is only a fragment of her past; a past that must have been so happy, instead of the bleak and desolate reality he had come to.

So yes, maybe he is just a stranger to them now.

Nile clears his throat, “Do you… want to see her now?”

Niccolo mumbles something underneath his breath, sniffling a little, before standing on his own two feet again. He gives the MP a sad look. “The food is going to be cold.”

He leaves the premises, presumably to find his friends and weep about how Sasha was taken from him too soon.

Marco only looks back, his freckled face plagued with a certain kind of sadness. He has many fond memories of Sasha, and he wants to spend time with her to add more of it.

But he was too late.

“That’s what a Marleyan looks like?” Marco asks Keith blankly, trying to distract himself from his grief by gathering more information.

“Yes.”

“They look the same as us.”

“Yes, but we have something embedded in our genes that made other races hate us.” Keith replies with a vague look.

The entire conversation was not a good distraction. He lets himself cry freely, as tears stream down his cheeks; he did not know if he deserved to cry for his friend, but he can’t resist the pain within him.

The rain continues to pour on, like the god from above them was also crying its tears out.

* * *

“Jean… your food is growing cold. Maybe you should rest like what Connie did, it’s been a hectic night.” Armin says, sitting across from him, whilst barely even touching his own soup. He had dark circles beneath his eyes and a haunted look crossing his face, but Jean could not address him properly, still staring at the table dully.

Armin and Mikasa had taken pity on him, when they both noticed that he was sitting on the table that he, Sasha, and Connie had used to occupy, alone— Connie was not looking forward to eating anything, having withdrawn to his own room to mourn his best friend privately. Jean Kirschtein, having to keep up appearances for the sake of his pride, forces himself to come out of the airship with a somewhat suitable look on his face before immediately going to the bathrooms to throw up everything inside of him.

Armin was the one who ordered the two Eldian children who snuck up on the airship to be locked in a cell, the scouts still trying to decide what to do with them.

(And Jean  _ only _ wanted an option where both children are alive and unharmed.)

This table used to be full of life, which Sasha and Connie had given— but once Sasha is dead, and Connie out of commission for the rest of the day, the table is quiet, even with Armin and Mikasa’s company. He loved the two of them, yes, but he is not as familiar with them as he was with Connie, Sasha, and Marco. He did not know them well enough that they could consider each other as best friends.

He feels nauseous all over again, remembering Sasha’s body; it was an image that is burnt to the back of his mind, and he can’t get rid of it. No wonder he could not take a nap in his own quarters, preferring to prepare himself for a meeting that he  _ knows _ is bound to happen with the rest of the scouts’ officers. When he had left the airship, he almost sobbed with joy, clearly not liking the cramped airspace any longer. He first assisted his squad members that were in shock of Sasha’s death — who were also close to the young woman, viewing her as their big sister — to reunite with their families.

He’s… no good at this living thing.

“You still haven’t eaten, Jean”, Armin says, ever the concerned friend that he is. Sometimes it frustrates Jean, that someone as timid and as innocent as he would have to taint himself with the blood of hundreds of individuals to save Eren and the scouts from the wrath of the Marleyan military. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Do you think I  _ look _ like I’m alright, Armin?” He snaps, clearly irritated just how many times the young man would continue asking that question. No, he was not fucking alright, end of story.

Mikasa gives him a warning glare, and he averts his gaze; the young woman that he used to have a crush on was still intimidating, and he did not wish to be on her bad side.

The blonde had the  _ gall _ to look apologetic, when it should be Jean who should be apologizing to him right now for snapping. “A-Ah, I’m really sorry Jean, I’m just so worried about you and...”

“I know”, He gently interrupts, standing from his place. This table was giving him too many flashbacks to make him function properly. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, Armin, I know you mean well, and I kinda liked having you and Mikasa as my company for the day.”

His blue eyes glance back at Jean’s plate, still full of food. “What about your food, Jean?”

“I don’t know, I’m not hungry.” He isn’t exactly lying either; despite not having eaten anything yesterday, and vomiting the rest of his insides out this early morning, he does not feel the starvation taking control of him and his body, nor does he feel his stomach roiling on the inside. All he wanted to do was to rest, his body — especially his arms and legs — shaking and weakening, his chest and legs definitely having a few scratches due to the tight-laced gear.

(But he had enjoyed Connie’s hug; he just wished he could have slipped onto more comfortable clothing to hug the young man back.)

“O-Okay. Just remember you have us, okay?” Armin’s voice is distant, despite the fact that he just started walking and is only a few steps away from the duo.

Their iconic duo is incomplete too, with Eren detained as well.

* * *

Keith Shadis managed to slip Marco past the Military Police’s guard, and now he was wandering around the place like some sort of kicked puppy. If he had joined the MP, he would not have looked so lost before. He wandered from place to place, trying to navigate where the scouts must have been resting, but to no avail. Even the context clues that he had picked out of this place was not that helpful for finding Jean.

He places a hand amongst each pillar, as he tries to keep himself out of the MP’s sights and reach, leaning on the pillars both for support and to hide himself from them.

A silhouette stumbles out into the open, leaning on one of the pillars for support. Marco, cautiously, hides behind the pillars, but tries to go closer to the person that had stumbled out. Damn the rain clouds; he could not see his face and features properly because of it.

The young man starts to sob, and it echoes throughout the open surroundings; his sobs, his crying, his weeping, like he had reached his breaking point. He was leaning on the pillar, slowly coming to a sitting position like his legs could not support him any longer. His head was inclined up to the sky, and he was pounding his head on the pillar he was leaning on. His choked sobs were hurting Marco, and he wants to comfort whoever the guy is; what made him break down to the point he is doing this all out here in the open?

He starts to approach the man breaking down, before the door opens to reveal a younger girl — from what he could infer from the silhouette — holding something in her hands. She kneels down to help comfort the older man, who was still crying and mourning (which keeps breaking Marco’s heart) by giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder, trying to calm his sobbing down. His cries are slowly being reduced to hiccups, and the girl silhouette gives him the bottle of water, which further drowns out his cries.

A sigh echoes throughout their surroundings, only to be bested by the sound of rain pouring.

“Thank you, Louise.” The taller silhouette says with a grateful tone. Marco’s eyes widened from the sound of his voice, when he was not crying his heart out. Holy shit, he knows that now was  _ not _ the time to be marvelling in the older man’s voice, but he can’t help but admire it. It was brash and abrasive, certainly holding an air of confidence and maturity all around him. It reminds him of someone, except his voice was not as deep as his.

He snaps himself out of it, shaking his head at a faster pace. He could not believe himself; he was attracted to someone’s voice. He should  _ really _ set his standards higher; he has a crush on an arrogant idiot, after all.

“You’re welcome, Jean.” Marco’s heart stops, and his infatuated face morphs into a look of surprise, his blush spreading wider.

That voice belongs to  _ Jean? _

Damn it; he should have pieced it together sooner.

Of  _ course _ his voice would have become deeper for over four years— it may look like a small number of years, but many people change when they  _ have _ to change, especially young, immature, and hormonal teens at the peak of their puberty. Of course Jean’s voice changed, but the tone he carries within it will still be recognizable enough to the point that someone as outdated as Marco would be able to recognize him so quickly.

His heart was beating fast, and beads of sweat form on his forehead even when the air is cool and cold due to the rain.

His face is so hot right now— he cannot believe he has seen Jean from a far, as a silhouette, his voice only being heard as of now. Like the light bends around him to force him to inch closer to his old friend, to look him right in the eye and see what he looks like.

“What’re you doing out here, Louise?” Jean asks with a sniffle, trying to get up, hands on the pillars for support. “You’re supposed to be eating.”

“You were not eating yourself, squad leader.”

Ah, so this girl was part of Jean’s squad. Marco smiles a little, before frowning with worry when Louise notes that he had not eaten this rainy morning yet.

“I… don’t have the guts to eat, might even puke it out an hour later.”

Marco gives the silhouette of Jean a look of concern. He… has not been eating? Is this because he is still in shock of Sasha being… dead? Damn it, he should be marching right over him and make him  _ eat _ something, because he is sure he will starve himself to death if left unsupervised. He sounds quite tired too— maybe he could convince that stubborn man to rest.

“Okay. Are you able to attend… Miss Blouse’s funeral?”

“Of course, I and Connie will be the ones arranging it.” He sighs tiredly, “Please don’t go looking for Connie, Louise.”

“I won’t. She… was a big sister to me, you know.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone saw her as some sort of sister. Now go running back to your friends now, I’m just going to rest in my quarters, okay?”

“Be sure to  _ actually _ rest and not do any paperwork, okay?”

Jean chuckles, but there is no sincerity or genuity Marco could hear from it. “I’ll make no promises.”

_ “Jean.” _

Jean sighs, standing on his own two feet now. “Okay, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright Louise?”

She nods. “Okay.”

Louise comes back to the dining room, whilst Jean heads to his own quarters, looking like he actually had not slept. Marco decides to follow him into his room, maintaining a collective distance from the guy in order not to gain Jean’s suspicion; he might have gotten perceptive over the years he had been gone, and he finds that fact somewhat laughable.

The two men head back inside, and from the dim lights around the hallways, it seems that Jean is wearing his own green uniform, with the scouts’ logo stitched upon his back. It taunts Marco, like  _ he _ was at fault for making Jean sign up for this regiment instead of following his dreams. He wants to be in the MP, he really does, but what is his dream without Jean beside him? From the certain back view he has of the young man, his two-toned hair seemed to have gotten longer, his auburn hair outgrowing his darker side.

He seemed quite tall too, and his pride  _ dreads _ to figure out how tall he was.

Jean stops by one of the doors, and Marco, still in a respectful distance, halts in his steps. The young man sighs, scratching his hair tiredly. “Alright, Armin, you can stop following me now.”

The freckled man’s eyes widen, but before he exposes himself to his former best friend, he calls out to him. “How— how did you know that I was here?!”

Jean’s face morphs into confusion at the surprisingly deeper yet soft voice. That does not sound like Armin’s. He does not reveal himself to the intruder, though, preparing to attack him at any given moment, his hands burying into the pants of his legs, feeling the dagger he had hidden in it, readying himself. He started doing this after bandits tried to ambush him and his friends three years ago, and his friends agreed that they should carry a weapon hidden in their clothes at all costs. “You’re not Armin.”

“I’m not, but you know me.” A slight pause, before he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, soft and slow, behind him. He narrows his eyes; he cannot recognize the owner of the voice anywhere, but his tone was patient, kind and caring, just like a— a certain someone. He purses his lips; no, not now, not when he is still mourning the death of  _ another _ friend. Why are they all so unlucky, to the point that life wants them to live?

“Try me, bastard.” He has his hand on the dagger’s hilt.

Marco chuckles a little, stepping a little closer to him, but still maintaining a respectful distance. From the tense stance and his hands grasping a hidden weapon of his choice, he might be stabbed by Jean out of instinct before he could get another word out. “You know… it isn’t fair that I’m only staring at your back.”

Jean sighs, “What do you want?”

He sighs, giving his friend a small smile as he approaches him, footsteps light. “I just want to talk to you, Jean.”

His name echoes around the other man’s mind— he had never,  _ ever _ heard anyone say his name like that. Soft yet firm, friendly but with a tinge of light humor tainted right in the tone. He hasn’t heard his name being spoken like that since— since—

Jean whirls around, completely abandoning his dagger, as he stares at a young man who resembles his departed best friend; the same freckled face, the same gentle look, the same soft glint in his eyes, the same small smile on his face. The only difference is that he seems to have grown older like he had, and has numerous — beautiful — scars all over the right side of his body, a taunting mark of what had devoured Marco Bodt. Jean stares at the young man, before closing his eyes.

No, it was just a dream— Marco is not alive. He  _ cannot _ be alive.

He’s dead, he saw his corpse himself.

He can never forget the dead look in Marco’s eyes.

Jean, slowly, cautiously, approaches this doppelganger. “You look a lot like a… friend that I’ve lost.”

“Because I  _ am _ the friend that you lost, Jean.” There he goes again with that soft and gentle voice; Marco’s heart is beating fast, and if Jean kept approaching him slowly, his heart might escape his ribcage. “I’m back.”

The other man laughs slowly, a smirk upon his lips. Yet there is not a hint of arrogance or delight in this smirk. It was… dull, mocking, bleak. “You can’t be back— he  _ died in Trost, _ and his ghost follows me ‘till this day.” He glares at him pointedly. “My mind must be playing tricks on me now, since this is not the first time I’ve seen  _ you _ in the hallways.”

Marco furrows his brows; now  _ that _ is fairly concerning. “How can I make you trust me, Jean?”

“Stop saying my fucking name like that!” He snaps, but Marco doesn't even flinch; he just gives his friend a sad look. “You remind me too much of him, damn it!”

“Because I am him.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’ll prove it.”

“Prove that you’re a phoney just to kill me?”

“I could never kill you, Jean.”

He only scoffs, before walking nearer. He gives Marco a smirk as dark brown eyes look down on him. “You know… he was supposed to be taller than me.”

He frowns at Jean, looking up at him with an incredulous look. “I can’t believe this.” He looks closer at the other man. Yes, he has grown  _ quite _ a lot during the past few years (even Marco’s height that came with his age was not able to compete with how tall Jean was now), his height deliberately mocking him (is this karma for usually jabbing jokes at Jean back then?) now. Much to Marco’s delight, Jean is growing his own facial hair, a goatee already growing, and his hair was longer too, which was a good look for him; it seems that he has lost his bet and needs to stop making fun of him. His face has matured, yes, but there is that ever-present scowl on his face. It looks more tired than arrogant, however.

Yes, he admits it, Jean Kirschtein got hotter in 854. Not like he wasn’t already a pretty boy back when they started training.

“You still haven’t proved that you’re Marco— the Marco that I used to know.”

“Do I truly need to prove it to you?”

“Yes. I can’t have an assailant prancing around my room to stab me at the back at any given moment now, will I?”

“I’m not an assailant, I’m a  _ friend, _ Jean.”

“There’s a thin fucking line between us.”

Marco thinks for a moment; a good memory, any good memory that will embarrass the hell out of Jean until he relents. And he finds it, as a mischievous smirk makes its way on his face. “Remember that time when we were caught by Mister Shadis in the closet when you decided you want to prank Eren?”

Jean’s eyes widened, catching his drift.  _ “No, _ wait—”

“And the whole act got us in trouble because we were  _ both _ in compromising positions?”

“Stop, hold on—”

“And Keith decided that we have to—” He was interrupted by a body, heavier and more built, colliding with his own. He flinches as one of Jean’s — calloused and scarred — hands come in contact with his right side, but he immediately falls victim to the comforting scent and warmth that Jean has emanated. It seems that his warmth has not faded for over the years, coming back at him with a vengeance.

“Oh my god”, Jean’s voice was quiet, ragged and breathy, his head resting on Marco’s left shoulder, an actual smile — not fake, nor mocking, a  _ sincere one _ — climbing upon his lips, his eyes blurring with tears. “You’re actually— holy shit— I don’t know what— fucking hell why— you’re fucking  _ alive.” _

Marco pats him on the back softly and gently, feeling tears streaming down his face, too. A relieved smile was on his face, as he buried his face onto Jean’s chest. “Yes, Jean, I’m back. And this time, I am  _ not _ leaving you, and we will both die together.”

“What the actual fuck”, Jean hisses, and he feels hot tears pouring on his shoulder; Marco does not mind it, since he is also dampening Jean’s uniform with his own tears.

It was good to be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #letJeanKirschteinhavehisownsquad854 (this chapter shows how much i project onto my boy Jean)


	4. jean probably needs a houseplant. you know, to brighten up his living situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Marco try to talk, but a LOT of people really don't want them to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring my headcannons, like Jean becoming a workaholic to cope with the deaths that happened because i am LIKE THAT

**iv.**

They spent a few minutes (it felt like hours to the both of them) wrapping around each other’s arms, like they were about to fall into oblivion. The embrace only breaks when Jean stands because his legs are quite stiff, but he offers Marco a hand, which he takes. He rises to his feet, his eyes only staring up at Jean, who looks like he was glad that he is alive. They walk side-by-side as Jean takes one of his keys and fits it into the keyhole.

The door to Jean’s quarters open with a resounding squeak as the owner of the place walks in, followed by Marco, who is quite cautious with the steps he is taking. His friend clears his throat awkwardly, “It may not be much, but make yourself at home.”

Marco takes one look at his place, and frowns at Jean, who gives him a look of confusion for getting such a negative reaction out of the nicer one of the two. “This place looks  _ really _ messy, Jean.”

He chuckles a little, “I haven’t been here for  _ weeks, _ so bare with how this place looks for a while, Marco.”

“This looks like it has not been cleaned for  _ months.” _ Marco snarks, as he gives the room another once-over; Jean has a simple bed in the corner of the room, backed by a single bookshelf. There was a small dining table with a little lamp at the center of it in another corner of Jean’s quarters, next to the quaint kitchen, and behind his windows a desk where he keeps most of his reports and paperwork at.

Jean sighs, waving his arms around. “I haven’t  _ got _ the time to clean my room, okay?!”

“Your home is  _ way _ smaller than the barracks we used to sleep in”, he observes, and the brown-haired man rolls his eyes. “You know you could always stay with your mother.”

He frowns at that, “First of all, I love my mother, and I don’t want her to suffer by lodging in her home, and secondly, it may be… somewhat small, but I like living here.”

“If you like living here, then at least clean this place up. It reeks of tears and sweat.” Marco replies.

“I  _ do _ clean this place up! I was just preoccupied ‘cause I was busy being a spy in Marley!”

He raises a brow, definitely fascinated. “A spy, huh? Is that what you have been doing this whole time?”

He shrugs, pointing at a sofa. “Sit, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Marco gives him a small smile as he follows his best friend’s orders, yet Jean was too frozen to reciprocate it, his smile like a dozen flowers blooming in a meadow. Abashed, he clears his throat before making his way to the kitchen, taking out a metallic kettle before pouring lukewarm water on it, and placing it on the stove so it begins to heat. There was a taunting silence around them, and he saw his friend studying the various paperwork at his desk— most of them were scratch or scrapped drafts of reports that needed to be passed, so he paid no mind to it.

“Do you… want a cup of tea too?” Jean inquires awkwardly, somewhat embarrassed by his own tone of voice. Did Marco’s smile  _ really _ have that kind of effect on him? It’s been a few years since he last saw his smile, and even in his dreams, despite thinking it was real, the smile that his brain had taken a memory of seemed superficial. But now that he is back, and is actually  _ nineteen years old _ (how, he still doesn’t know), the smile is recognizable, and is further made beautiful by how mature he looks, and his dozens of enticing scars.

“Sure.” He replies, but his voice is muffled; Jean snaps out of his thoughts, since it seems that his subconscious is — once again — submerging into a pool of memories. It was a coping mechanism that Jean had created for himself when he can feel guilt pooling inside of his heart as he watches comrades die over and over again. He just goes…  _ numb _ as he continues to live through memories before being reminded that he is  _ still _ alive.

“Alright.” He inwardly cringes at his own reply; alright?  _ Alright?! _ What kind of person would say that to his best friend who he has not seen in over four years? He is a good talker— a sweet-talker actually, and he has the charisma of over a hundred soldiers (not as much charisma as the late Commander Erwin, but still enough to get into the good graces of the other regiments), but why is his mind not offering  _ any _ conversation starter towards Marco? Was he really  _ that _ speechless over his friend finally coming back to the point he forgot he can make actual persuasive statements?

He could feel a hot embarrassment rise over his cheeks; he is  _ supposed _ to be impressing Marco, not the other way around.

He yawns a little, his eyelids drooping; damn it, he knew he should have slept first before addressing the fact that Marco has returned to the living world, but he also wants answers  _ now _ and is too impatient to wait for eight or more hours.

(There was this one time he was woken up by a panicked Connie and Sasha — bless their souls — barging into his home once, stating that he had been missing for a day and they were both worried for him.)

“My god, how many sheets of paper did you have to waste to write things properly?” Marco asks out loud, and Jean blushes in embarrassment. Marco stares at the papers; Jean’s handwriting, from what he had seen for himself whenever his friend writes letters to his mother, was very,  _ very _ legible. However, in these sheets of paper, his handwriting seems to be a  _ lot less _ legible than it usually is, like he either was doing this as a rush job or he was doing this while he was sleep deprived. “Do you  _ pass _ all your reports like this?”

_ “No”, _ Jean answers back, pouring boiling water to two cups; he rarely ever had a guest, and when he does it is usually Sasha, Connie, and the rest of his squad, or Mikasa and Armin, or perhaps even Commander Hanji, if they truly  _ need _ to have an unofficial meeting with him. “I don’t pass shit when my handwriting looks like it was written by a fucking chicken.”

“I thought you did _ , _ thank god you didn’t.”

Jean scoffs, serving him his own cup of tea. “You are underestimating me too much, Marco.”

The way he says his name sends his heart leaping into the air with joy; his face starts to go red just at the thought of his lips on his ears, whispering his name over and over again. The way he says it was… gentle, no trace of arrogance or abrasiveness reaching his ears. It was soft, a tentative roll of his tongue, like he can hardly believe he is back in the living world, with  _ him. _

Marco takes a tentative sip of his cup of tea, cautious of burning his own tongue. “This… tastes  _ delicious, _ Jean.”

“Thanks.” He stalks over to his desk, placing his own cup of tea near him, and far enough from the blank sheets of pure white paper. “Would you mind if I tell you my story whilst I write a report to the commanders of the other regiments about what I have witnessed during my time as a spy in Marley?”

“Of course; it seems that you’re… really busy.”

“Not that busy for now, since our job there is done.”

“Are you sure?”

He yawns a little, his eyelids drooping once again. “I can manage.”

“You look like you’re about to  _ collapse, _ Jean. You need some rest before you do your work.”

“I also have to help Connie arrange a— a funeral for…  _ Sasha.” _ His voice breaks a little when he says that, but Marco will understand. He  _ always _ understands.

He gives Jean a sad look. “I know, Jean. But please take your time, maybe you can take a break today before resuming your work tomorrow.”

“I cannot do that.” He slips into his formal tongue, something that he has gained after he was appointed to a commanding officer. He didn’t know why he had slipped into it, since Marco is  _ not _ a stranger he has to keep formalities. However, Connie  _ did _ note he slips into his more polite tongue even when he is with friends and familiar colleagues, especially when he is quite sleep deprived. He leans on his own chair, which squeaks a little. “Eren decided to commit genocide and now we have to pick up the pieces, since he is detained.”

Marco’s heart skips a beat, as his gray eyes go wide; Eren, the young ambitious boy who wanted to kill all titans to ensure the freedom of humanity, now going about to murder  _ humans? _ He could hardly believe this— he notices that there is no indignance or irritation in Jean’s voice, replaced with disappointment for his friend and exhaustion from whatever he had done in Marley.

“What… did Eren do?”

Jean sighs, as he dips his quill into a bottle of ink to start his report, his head lolling onto one side before he manages to sway back into consciousness again. “A lot, such as retrieving the Warhammer Titan from the Tyburs and murdering countless civilians during the raid in Marley, which prompted  _ us _ to rescue him.”

There is no anger, only… mourning, dismay. If Jean still has any anger left towards Eren, it must be when his raid on Marley leads to Sasha getting murdered.

“He…  _ murdered _ innocents? Civilians? But, that doesn’t sound like the Eren we know—”

_ “Used _ to know”, Jean corrects, as he starts to write his report, despite the fact that he had been sending dozens of letters to his fellow scouts through Marleyan mail. “He’s not the person you used to know, Marco.”

“Where is he now?”

“Being detained in the scout’s dungeons because of what he did.” He replies briskly, staring at his handwriting— oh my god, it was hideous, with how most of his letters and runes seem too shaky and incomprehensible to be understood. He is  _ not _ going to have another lecture from Levi and Hanji about how good handwriting is required for writing intelligible reports. With a sigh, he gives up and stands from his desk suddenly, and the world starts to spin.

Jean groans, clutching his head with one hand as he grips on his desk tightly. Marco seems to have figured out that something is wrong with Jean (does he have some kind of instinct or sensor of sorts?), as he stands from the sofa he had been sitting on. “Jean! Are you alright, do you need any help?”

“I— I—” He can feel another headache forming inside of him, and he leans on the walls for support. Marco approaches him, wishing to help the young man.

“Jean, please, you need to rest.”

His brown eyes make contact with Marco’s gray ones; he notices the sunken in eyes and dark circles on his face, but… Jean is still just as handsome as he had thought he was way back when. “Should I, really?”

He nods, “You should.”

Much to his surprise, Jean buries his face on Marco’s shoulder, his entire body shaking. His body was hot, but unnaturally hot; like he is a desert and he is a tundra, trying to cool the hot sandy dunes in his own territory. He can feel Jean’s heart beating fast, and his elevated breathing at the nape of his neck makes him shiver a little, but he has to prioritize his friend’s health over his crush over him.

“You… don’t like it when people touch your right side.” He whispers into his ear like it is a fact, which makes his heart beat rapidly. “You flinched when my fingers made contact with your right side; I am sorry for hugging you on that side.”

“You… shouldn’t be, you didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry for not being there for you when you were— you were—” Marco shushes him, patting Jean on the back comfortingly.

“Jean, please, I am not mad at you for not seeing how my fate has been so grisly”, he replies, in his own kind of gentle whisper. “I am quite annoyed that you still have not rested, though.”

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“But… we were supposed to be together, you and I.” His voice is breaking now, and he did not want to hear it, like a fissure opening the ground. From how much his body starts to shake, following his hiccups, he has not expressed his own feelings towards other people properly. Just how many years has he been hiding this pain underneath a façade, waiting for someone else that may never come back? “When I saw your corpse, I— I was  _ broken, _ in denial that somehow, someone as skilled and as good-hearted as  _ you, _ would just fucking die on a battlefield. I never knew how and why.”

Marco holds back his tears, wanting to tell him, yet also  _ not _ wanting to tell the young man— he did not want to relive the pain he had felt, but… he did not want to keep Jean in the dark, either. “I know, and I will tell you all about it when you get some rest.”

He refuses to move, despite his legs going numb. “I want to know  _ now, _ Marco, of how you were ripped apart from me cruelly, and how you came back here, looking… like you aged, like you remained  _ living.” _

“I wish I had the answer to your question.”

“I wish I have an answer to why in over four years,  _ I _ was one of the only people left from our original group.”

“Please, don’t say that Jean. Just rest, you definitely deserve it.”

He looks at him, their eyes meeting again; another spark is set aflame in his skin, making him tingle from the contact. If only Jean was not in his uniform right now… perhaps he could convince him to shed his uniform which seems to be quite warm and hot on his skin. “I… do not deserve you, Marco.”

He is  _ not _ taking his bullshit right now. “Shut up, because you  _ do, _ and I deserve you. Now get on the bed and shed your clothes; you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Actually, I have not slept in a week”, he replies unabashedly, and Marco rolls his eyes at his friend (crush).

“Let’s just get you to bed, Jean.” He breaks away from the embrace, no matter how much it pains him to do that (his body is suddenly cold), and Jean whines at the loss of contact. He puts one of Jean’s arms around his shoulders, his weight being quite a hindrance to how he walks. It has been a long time since he was pushing weights that was  _ not _ his ODM gear, and it clearly shows with Jean, who has become more toned and built since the last time he has seen him. With a huff, the young man gets Jean to his bed; the latter lets out a tired groan, and Marco smiles fondly at him.

“Do you want me to remove your uniform, Jean?”

“Mmm… no it’s fine, I sleep like this a lot.” He turns his head another way, fanning himself. He is  _ definitely _ hot in that uniform, literally and figuratively.

His eyes shine with concern. “That doesn’t sound like a healthy way to sleep, Jean.”

“At least… ended up in bed this time.” He looks back at Marco with sad eyes, tired and grovelling. “My back wouldn’t be sufferin’ much.”

“Oh, Jean...” That’s it, he is  _ definitely _ going to teach him how to take care of himself. “Want me to retrieve water for you?”

“M’fine. Please, just stay here, with me.” His hand touches his shoulder, a pleading look on his face.

Marco bites his lip, trying to quell down his feelings. “Of— of course, Jean.”

“This might all just be a dream, so please… don’t stop touching me.”

“I am not a dream, Jean.”

He scoffs a little, “You were never there for me when I keep waking up in the same damn world without you.”

“I  _ will _ be here this time, Jean, holding you close.” He holds his hand firmly to emphasize his point.

“I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I will not.”

“Promise?” The way he looks up at him just… just  _ hurts _ Marco; how could someone as young and carefree as Jean could turn to a tired, and lonely husk that was his adult self? And he had  _ barely _ reached the peak of his adulthood yet.

Damn it all; they were forced to grow up, forced to die on a whim.

“Of course, I promise, and this time I will never leave you.”

Jean laughs, turning his body so that he could see  _ all _ of Marco; he gives him a once-over with his eyes, and he smiles before his eyes close. Before he could be taken to the land of dreams, he said one last thing. “God, Marco, you look beautiful.”

He gasps, his eyes having this brilliant sheen of brightness; like he had just experienced galaxies, universes colliding. His freckled face reddens a little more, especially with how  _ peaceful _ Jean looks in his sleep. He does not mind the way their palms, which were holding each other, are sweating right now. He is here, with Jean, and not in that particularly boring void where he spends the rest of his life in agony.

Jean is a highly ambitious man with a case of brutal honesty and arrogance, yet that is what made him so enticing in the first place; made Marco so fascinated with him to the point he would go observe him to such extreme lengths, trying to find out if he can be softened. He was right, the young boy had a soft spot underneath all that brutal honesty and aggressive façade that he has— he was the first ever to crack it, and… supposedly the last.

It seems that the young man right in front of him still lets his guard down for Marco, even after all these years. Fate truly has been unkind to him.

His eyelids heavy, Marco himself leans on the bed, lying the side of his head on the mattress.

The mattress smells of watercolors and graphite along with some sweat and tears; completely overlapping the stench of Jean’s uniform, sweat, tears, and vomit.

His back will ache if he sleeps like this, but he does not care, as long as he and Jean would hold hands together as the world around them is set on fire.

* * *

Marco was abruptly brought back into consciousness by someone knocking on the door and shouting  _ loudly. _ He jumps a little as the person on the other side pounds on the door harder, and with a sigh, he is forced to break his hand-holding from Jean, wiping his drool and sweat away with his shirt. He stretches a little, blinking rapidly to adjust himself to the surroundings of Jean’s — very messy — home.

“Jean, I know you’re in there!” A voice says from the outside; Marco is sure that it was Connie, or maybe it was not. “It’s me, Connie! We were  _ supposed _ to arrange Sasha’s… funeral now! We agreed on this!”

That was Connie? He blinks a little, processing the sound of his voice— it does not sound as friendly nor humorous as he had remembered it to be. It was understandable, however; he had seen his beloved friend (they jokingly refer to each other as siblings from other parents), Sasha, die in front of him. And it seems that he is not taking her death quite well. Neither of them were taking her death quite well. And that made him feel sorry for them.

Part of him wished to open the door and hug Connie tightly, shedding some tears that need to be shed too. But he must be cautious, for Connie might react to what he perceives to be an intruder unexpectedly, especially when he is in that kind of state right now.

So, he decides to wait until Connie stops knocking and just… walks away from Jean’s home, wanting to be alone with him once again.

The knocking ceased from the other side— however, relief was not his as his sharp hearing detects the sound of keys jingling. “Are you burying yourself in paperwork again to avoid this to the point you passed out? Damn it Jean, working yourself to death won’t bring Sasha nor Marco back. And did you forget that you gave me a spare key to your quarters so that I could help you with your workload?” Ouch, his second-to-last statement kind of hurt— and if Jean was awake he is sure that he would not let that one slide. He sighs, as he inserts the key in the keyhole.

Marco immediately stands, trying to find a place to hide— damn it, why is Jean’s home so small to the point it barely has any hiding spaces? His eyes go to the bathroom, and when he hears the door clicking as it had found its match, he runs to the bathroom as fast as he can, only leaving the door ajar so he could watch the scene unfold right in front of him.

Connie opens the door with a reverberant squeak, and much to his surprise, he does not find Jean hunched over his desk sleeping, quill still in his hand as ink spills into one of his parchments— he finds the young man in the bed he rarely ever uses (preferring either the sofa if his head hurt too much to sit up or the desk to sleep in), sleeping peacefully. He rarely ever sleeps like that; usually it was just tired naps or falling asleep in public places, but the smile on his lips was so serene, that he will regret waking him up.

_ He must be having a dream of Marco again, _ Connie thinks sadly, remembering how many times he has heard Jean sob the name of his former best friend over and over again.

Marco leans away from the door, knowing that his silver-haired friend (he was quite surprised to find Connie walking in the room with actual  _ hair, _ and also, did he grow  _ taller? _ ) is sharp-eyed as well, but not enough to actually lose sight of his two friends. He was wearing the same green uniform as Jean, with the wings of freedom on his back. So it seems that Connie has joined the scouts, although it was painstakingly obvious, since Sasha too was a scout.

The young man shakes Jean awake, which immediately gets him to groan after a few seconds of shaking. From where Marco is looking, the first thing Jean does is immediately clenches the hand that he had held a while ago; he gives Jean a guilty look in the bathroom. He had broken his promise, and it was not even a  _ day _ since they had been reunited.

“Jean, wake up!” Connie says, and his friend groans once again, slowly sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck.

He sighs exhaustedly, “Marco, you didn’t need to shake me that hard—” He looks up to meet Connie’s eyes, and the freckled man hiding in the bathroom cringes a little. “Oh.” He had a disappointed and heartbroken tone on his face, because of course, of  _ course _ the man whom he had never forgotten is not real, just a figment of his dreams.

Connie blinks, “Marco? Were you dreaming again, Jean?”

“No shit, Ymir”, he replies, getting up from his bed and fixing his wrinkled uniform. His smile and serene face was gone, replaced by a stony and stern expression. “Damn it, I should’ve known that promise was fake, and that  _ he _ was fake.”

He feels his heart break for the man he loves; has he truly become hopeless to what the world would be like if he was here? Marco would  _ kill _ just for him to see his lips curve to a smile once again.

“Of course he was”, Connie nods grimly, trying to hold his arm. “Now come on, Sasha, let’s—”

Jean pushes him away with his own elbow, staring at the window with a blank stare. “Don’t touch me. I’m not Sasha.”

_ Oh god, _ Marco thinks as he watches Connie’s eyes go wide with horror of what he had just said.

The silver-haired young man chokes a little, before taking a deep breath. “Come on Jean, we have a fucking funeral to arrange.”

(The Connie he knew would never swear.)

Jean shrugs, “Let’s go.”

Connie walks outside, and Jean stares at his home quizzically, trying hard not to believe that everything he had seen was just a dream. He scoffs, before sobbing a little as tears stream down his face like a small stream.

“Of course it was a dream. It will  _ always _ be a dream. Fuck you, fate.” He stalks out of the room with hard steps, and the door slams shut.

Marco had been about to run out of the bathroom when Connie had left, but it seems he had been too slow to stop Jean’s turmoil.

He falls into his knees in the bathroom, his hands on his eyes as he starts to sob.

How could he fuck this up so badly to the point the person he loves so much was now questioning whether or not he was a delusion, despite the fact that he is warm to the touch and very, very real?

He swears at himself for losing Jean again.

* * *

Having a conversation with Connie about how to hold Sasha’s funeral and where they should bury her made Jean feel numb and empty. He is sure that Connie does not like talking about this either; from the way he shakes every time he mentions Sasha and her untimely demise, from the way his eyes shine with ever-present tears, from the way his voice would crack and he would have to drink water from his own bottle to quell the presence of tears down his face.

It was saddening and…  _ pathetic, _ that  _ they _ were the ones who had to officiate a dear friend’s funeral.

But he also did not want others like the Military Police to arrange her funeral— they are just strangers to her who never knew the woman, never knew how much she meant to the other members of the Survey Corps. She was a food addict, yes, but she made everyone feel like their lives are all special, and she was the one who had stopped him from starving himself to death after Marco had died, one of the people who made him stop and believe and think that his life is just as special as them.

She was one of the people who had been convinced of Jean’s speech of joining the scouts.

And she paid the price for it.

He knows that he should not blame himself for influencing Sasha’s choice; it was her  _ own, _ and it does not look like she regretted any second she was there in the Survey Corps. She had loved everyone like her own family.

Someone must have told Niccolo about Sasha now; he had promised to cook a dinner of celebration for the woman.

He had also made a promise to him, saying that he will keep Sasha alive.

Jean snorts to himself; he was never good at keeping any kind of promise, ever.

He feels a little guilty, only pitying himself this far— he could use a cigarette right now, which was another one of his unhealthy coping mechanisms ever since the stress of becoming a commanding officer got to him.

When Connie told him he had overheard Levi and Hanji brainstorming about promoting him into a commanding officer, especially after an influx of new scout recruits came in, he had been enthralled; was his leadership and competence enough to fit with the actual experts now? He had wanted to help Hanji, since he knew that she was quite stressed with her job, along with Levi Ackerman. He has only wanted to help people live a normal and easygoing life.

He did not think that the curse of becoming too stressed and tired with his own job would get to him and fuck him over.

He stares at his hand that had been hanging on the side of his bed this morning (had he slept through the night again? He missed dinner, once again). He could feel warmth emanating from it a while earlier, until there was a sudden coldness to it, like a blizzard had hit the fireplace and forced it to douse out the flames.

Jean wants to believe that the things that happened yesterday — Marco reappearing back into his life, Marco comforting him, Marco being there whilst he sleeps — were just a lie, another  _ dream. _ Because he knows that the god from up above (if there  _ was _ any god up there) loved to torture him over and over again, always sending him images of Marco or Sasha’s death whenever he closes his eyes (curiously, he did not have a single type of nightmare this night). To the point he would wake up with beads of sweat on his forehead before going up to vomit in his bathroom.

No wonder he had to start working out; to distract himself at how  _ bad _ he is at eating and actually processing and digesting his own food. It was not like he did not want to eat— he is hungry, he is  _ always _ hungry, but he cannot find the urge or energy in himself to eat anything. And when he does, one particular bad dream is enough to send the contents of his food out his stomach.

Is this how Armin, Mikasa, and Eren felt when Shiganshina was overrun by titans?

If so, then it must be an unpleasant experience then, and he somewhat feels guilty of how he had used to ridicule all of Eren’s past ambitions of murdering all the titans and dancing on their grave.

Just listening to Connie sputter and sob again is making him want to cry himself— but he cannot do that, since he has to be the strong one for his comrades, for his squad.

He sighs, giving Connie his own bottled water when the silver-haired man realizes that he does not have any drinkable liquid left. “Use mine, Connie.”

“Th-Thanks.” Connie opens the bottle of water and starts to gulp down the liquid inside of it, before taking a deep breath and continuing. When he gives Jean his water back, the contents of his bottle seem light, almost empty. Jean gives the other an unreadable look, and the silver-haired man clears his throat sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“It’s— it’s fine, really”, he replies, wringing his hands together as he stares at the damp ground. It had stopped raining last night, but from the rather dark gray clouds that are hanging over them, it seems that it will still start raining. How poetic it is, that whenever there is a funeral, it will always be dark and rainy, no matter what season it was. He scoffs to himself as he stares back at Connie, who was blankly staring at the table. “Are you there, Connie?”

“Yeah.” He takes another shaky breath, sitting down. “I just…  _ hate _ where life is going now.”

Jean shrugs, a small smirk tugging his lips. “Ditto.”

Connie opens his mouth, wanting to say something, before immediately closing it as his gold eyes try to make an alternate conversation. He does this once, twice, thrice; once is already too awkward to get Jean invested in the conversation, twice is making him feel second-hand embarrassment, and thrice is making him feel like he  _ wants _ to know what was going on in the young man’s head right about now.

The brown-haired boy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Connie is never the type of guy to beat around the bush; he never does have a brain-to-mouth filter, like Sasha. They truly were twins.  _ “Connie, _ stop hesitating and say what you gotta say.”

“You might beat me up.” He tries for a joke, but his jokes have become stale and less sincere this time around.

“I won’t.” He reassures his friend, his only friend now that everyone they love and care about are all dead.

“How did you… cope when Marco died?”

Jean had actually expected that question, ever since Connie had announced Sasha’s death early in the morning. They had, after all, lost both of their other halves (but why was the dream that he had last night was so convincing, so  _ real? _ ), and they are now alone in this world and with each other. It seems that they’ll just have to accompany each other until they die in a brewing war (because their actions have consequences, because the world still desires the extinction of Paradis Eldians).

Sasha was the one who helped the two of them get to know one another, like a bridge connecting two entirely different people to each other. Now that she is gone, and that Marco is gone (he still has mixed feelings about that), it seems that the two of them will have to endure the hardships of their life together.

“I don’t think that the way I coped about Marco’s death is healthy.” Jean finally replies, a hand on his mouth, thinking. It was not actually healthy; he had refused to eat, sleep, nor drink for a few days, preferring to do his own work to distract himself from the image of Marco’s corpse, reduced to just ashes. He only started to eat or do healthy activities after Sasha and Connie found out that he is not taking Marco’s death lightly. Sometimes, he would even start digging his nails into the right side of his skin, whenever he starts to panic and think about Marco.

“I know.” Connie agrees sadly, “You were a wreck when he died.”

“Too much of a wreck.” He concurs.

“I actually regret not being able to see his death, too”, Connie admits with a sigh, “At least I—  _ we _ saw Sasha dying, and I guess it gave us a handful amount of closure.  _ You _ did not, with Marco at least.”

He shrugs, tired of this mess. “You can say that.”

“Jean… I’m actually surprised and proud you went straight first to bed rather than overwork yourself when you came back here.”

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

He was also surprised himself; he had actually planned to write a report of what had happened back in Marley, and letters of condolences towards Sasha’s family and Niccolo. He did not plan on sleeping, so he had been surprised when he woke up and realized his back is not aching as much and he was lying on his own bed (which he rarely ever uses and usually serves as a bed for a guest). What was even more surprising is the lack of ever-present nightmares, and a warmth in his hand that made his cheeks burn.

He remembers the dream of Marco, and he wonders— was the illusion of Marco the reason why he had gone to bed early, without overexerting himself again? His mind loved to play tricks on him, so it tricked Jean to going to bed rather than doing his work and helping the Commander and the Captain.

Jean decides to be blunt and honest, which he always is; he missed being arrogant and brutally honest, but he  _ had _ to mature if he wanted to be a good role model for the other scout recruits. “I… I’m pretty sure the only reason I went to bed early was because I was hallucinating Marco again.”

Connie stares at him with an unreadable look, before slowly bobbing his head up and down. “I… see. At least you  _ did _ rest.”

“Did  _ you?” _ Jean asks while raising a brow quizzically at him.

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t really have that much paperwork to work on”, he replies, trying to keep the air light but the strings are taut. “So I just slept and cried in my sleep because I keep reliving Sasha’s death over and over again.”

“Oh. Still, you slept.”

“I wish I can just be free from the nightmares that are rent free in my mind all day.”

Jean stares at him with a sad look in his eyes. “Me as well.”

“So… what should we do with Sasha’s funeral?”

His heart sinks a little. “Oh, we’re still doing this.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to do this either.”

Jean leans back on his chair, almost falling to the ground when he realizes he was only sitting on a stool. That gets a chuckle out of Connie, and he smiles a little, not embarrassed by his foolishness at all. Not anymore, when the person who smiled with Connie is gone and there is nothing to smile about anymore. “Do we really have to do this?”

“Do you want someone like Nile Dok or Pixis taking over the arrangements, Jean?”

“No, okay, fine, we’re doing this.”

“Yeah, we know her better than anyone.”

“Jean!” Armin’s voice is heard through the room, and Connie and Jean turn their heads to him— unsurprisingly, he is being accompanied by Mikasa, who still has that stoic, stony glance on her face. He gives Connie a small wave, and he turns to Jean. “Jean, Hanji-san asked me to retrieve a file of papers in your room?”

“Oh, you mean the detailed entries of my time in Marley? But I thought I was going to give a summary of what happened there.”

“You still need to do that for the other regiments to follow your journey, but Hanji wants your detailed reports right now. Do you have it on you?”

“No, I think I already gave it to Captain Levi. Probably when I was still in shock and processing Sasha’s death, I could not tell.” Jean, once again, slips to his formal facade. Back when he had slipped into his formal facade whenever he was tired and sleep-deprived, his own friends made fun of it— now, it’s just a part that made him… well, the new him, the Jean of 854.

Armin nods. “I see, thank you, Jean!”

He only hums in gratitude as Mikasa and Armin slowly walk away— without Eren in the middle, they look like they are lonely, like they are without a third of their part. Then again, their friendship had been doomed ever since Eren had kissed Historia’s hand; he noticed that the suicidal maniac had seen  _ something, _ and it changed him, making him into something less recognizable. Jean is not stupid— he had seen the way Armin had been standing for a few seconds in their airship, before kneeling down to give Eren a hand, without a delighted gasp or smile in his face.

It seems that their friendship is falling apart, and Jean cannot help but feel bad for the both of them, who had to deal with Eren’s crap firsthand.

Connie continues on talking. “We should also bury the things Sasha had with her in her apartment, or maybe we should give it to either Niccolo or her family, either one of the two.”

Jean gives him a preliminary; he’s good at that, good at defusing a situation and forcing two sides to agree on one another. “Bury the things that Sasha obviously loves and never wants to part with her, while giving her other things to Niccolo or her family. I’m pretty sure Kaya would  _ love _ to have the portrait I drew of Sasha handed to her.”

Months before he was sent to Marley to spy on the people there, he had drawn Sasha and the others as a parting gift, with all of them paying him to sketch portraits of them. He has never felt praised for his drawing style before, and the amount of money he had received was entirely flattering. He wondered if, in the near future, he would retire from the Survey Corps and just become an actual painter, appreciated by the people.

“Or she’ll just cry.”

“Don’t be like that, Connie”, he scolds. He has gotten used to his older brother attitude, and sometimes he wants to go back to the time where he was just an immature, idiotic teen who still ridicules Eren’s plans to exterminate titans. “Kaya  _ loved _ Sasha.”

“I know, I know. I’m just—” He takes a deep breath, sighing. “Very overwhelmed with everything.”

“Me too.” He takes out a few sheets of paper from the vest of his uniform, and a quill to top it off. “Shall we get going with the arrangements?”

“We should, I  _ really _ don’t want to keep going at this.”

“Me either.” Jean starts to right down their funerary arrangements to the food-addict that they loved so much.

* * *

Since Marco is left alone in Jean’s room (because he literally locked him in the room, which was quite understandable since spies or thieves would dare break in), he decides to pass the time by observing every little detail in Jean’s little home. He has noticed that the home Jean has been residing in, ever since he had set eyes upon his residence, that it was cramped, small, and  _ lonely. _ Like it was reflecting Jean’s personality and the way he feels as of now.

He stares at the kitchen, and at the bathroom; it seems like they were just nifty little additions in Jean’s residence, with how the paint in the bathroom looks shinier and brighter than the dull paint in the main room. The kitchen looked like it was just an extension of the room, with the remains of what seems to be a wall that used to separate it from the main room.

Marco remembered Jean saying he would like a nice, homely, and spacey apartment in Wall Sina, with separate rooms to humbly accord to his living conditions. His residence right now does  _ not _ look comfortable; it is like he had cramped all of the things he needed to live in one tiny office. He narrows his eyes, before putting the pieces together; the desk, the papers, the chairs, the book case.

He sighs to himself sadly, it seems all of his friends hit an all-time low.

His friend would  _ never _ abandon his health or comfort so easily— it seems that this must be how he copes, overexerting himself just so he could repress all horrible memories that kept haunting him forever.

Marco wonders if the young man still draws; he was one of the only people who had seen Jean draw first-hand, and all of his drawings (from sketches to paintings to portraits) were all beautiful, done so carefully. He did not waste his free time on arguing with Eren or eating— sometimes he finishes his meal so quickly just so he could lock himself in the bunks and continue drawing in the sketchpad he had brought with him.

He had caught Jean staring at him, once— his brown eyes were shining with inspiration, as if Marco’s own appearance had invoked a muse within him. His theories were right when he found a sketch of his own face lying on his bunk bed, addressing him. Jean’s artstyle was so… unique, realistic, and at the same time good at portraying any kind of character or intention with just one swipe of a hand. He was brilliant, in many ways that Marco is not.

The freckled man turns to stare at his bed; usually, Jean would hide all of his ink-filled papers underneath his pillow or blanket so that when Shadis comes to inspect their bunk beds, he would not be caught and punished so easily.

One of the books on the bookcases catches the young man’s attention; it is thick, and old, and yellowed pages sticking out of it. Curiosity overwhelms him, and he takes it out from its place. He coughs as dust clouds his vision and face, waving his hand to try diminish the number of dust on himself. With another cough and a sneeze, he opens the book, only to find himself staring at the most recent page with fascination in his eyes.

“This looks too detailed to be done by a skilled painter”, he mutters to himself, as he gingerly holds this peculiar type of painting in his hands. The colors were muted and gray (comparable to sketching with only black pencils in a white canvas), but the contents of this portrait was clearly comprehensible— it was the senior Survey Corps. He turns it back, and he is met with Jean’s neat and legible handwriting, listing the people in this peculiar documentation from left to right (Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman, Armin Arlert, Levi Ackerman, Hanji Zoe, Sasha Blouse, Connie Springer, and Jean Kirschtein), and what year it was taken (853).

Immediately distracted, he takes in all of their faces; he has not seen the rest of his friends yet but he  _ will _ sooner or later (except for Eren, Jean heavily implied that he cannot see him), so might as well make himself familiar with who they are now, and how much has changed about them.

Eren looked…  _ melancholy, _ like he had witnessed what would happen to everyone and everything, which had completely destroyed his view of the world. He stares into his eyes like it was nothing, like it was a trivial matter. Mikasa looked the same, with a soft look and smile on top of her hard exterior. Jean had spent many months trying to get her to smile, but it never ever worked. Armin was smiling at him with delight (why were they all focused at staring at the front?), but there is a simple hint of sadness in his eyes.

Sasha (god, he missed her) was holding two… whatever those are (they were red, and they were big, and they have  _ claws? _ ), looking victorious as she smiles at the camera. It is quite humorous when he notices that Connie, who was always one of the shortest boys in the Survey Corps, outgrew his own best friend and was one of the tallest boys in this portrait. He is seen making a silly face, his eyes focused at the center. Jean smiles fondly at the two, his eyes having such a soft look.

The door clicks open, but he was too engrossed in studying the odd portrait to notice it.

Until someone gasps and falls to the ground.

Marco immediately snaps the book shut, looking around to see who had entered, before sighing in relief when it had just been Jean, back from wherever he had been. He looked bewildered, his hair wild and his chest heaving.

The freckled man smiles a little, “You look like you saw a ghost, Jean.”

The brunette does not respond, staring at his hands before slowly looking back at him with a confused expression. He is patient when Jean closes his eyes, before opening it once again, only to find Marco still here.

The young man on the bed chuckles fondly. “Still here.”

“You—” Jean immediately locks the door and runs to him, his warm, scarred hands cupping the left side of his face. He is warm in his hands, and he cannot believe this. “You are…  _ alive? _ Last night wasn’t a dream?”

Marco tilts his head to the left, “It wasn’t, it was real.”

“Holy fuck”, Jean says, before his eyes land on the book Marco had taken from his bookshelves.

He instantly starts to defend himself, because of  _ course he does. _ “Jean, it’s not what it looks like! I was just bored since you  _ literally locked me in here _ and I thought that this was your sketchpad and I found this picture of—”

“It  _ is _ my sketchpad.” Jean replies, getting in the bed right next to him. “I just collect every single sketch I have and put it there, so that’s why it looks so…  _ old.” _

Marco lifts up the unusual painting he had spotted first. “This doesn’t look like something you made.”

“Oh, that? Onyakopon offered to take pictures of us and sent multiple photos for the members of the senior scouts.”

“‘Pictures’?”

Jean sighs fondly. “It’s quite complicated to explain, but basically you stand at the center of a machine, and then it will take your picture… really faster than having to paint seven people at once, ya know.”

“Do you still paint?”

“Of  _ course _ I do.”

“May I see your most recent ones?”

Jean scratches his head sheepishly. “Well… I  _ could _ show you, but also I can’t, because most of my paintings are about Marleyan buildings and people so it was also mixed into the various reports I sent to Captain Levi.”

There is a slight twinge of disappointment in Marco. “Oh.” Then he gains the opportunity to ask about Marley. “So… what was it like there, in this place called Marley? I heard that you and the scouts went beyond the walls?”

“We did.” Jean really did not want to remember his time spent in Marley, but Marco’s excited eyes and curious look does him over. “Marley is a place outside the walls, and they’re pieces of shit.”

The young man subtly leans closer to him, and Jean’s heart skips a beat. He has never felt anything like this, ever since the person who he actually cared about was… well, you know. His heart could tell right away that this was truly Marco, in both flesh and blood. He looks so amazing, and beautiful, his scars telling a story. A small blush settles on his cheeks, but it is discreet, definitely not as subtle as Marco’s (Jean may be an idiot, but he is  _ not _ oblivious) own reddening cheeks. But he looks away, flustered.

“You never got to tell me the story of what you were doing in Marley. How long have you been there?”

“Just a couple of weeks. It was a decent place but the people there were assholes to our kind.”

“Our kind?”

“Eldians.”

Marco hits him with a pillow playfully. “Why don’t you actually define what Marleyans and Eldians are, huh Jean? This year is so weird, but the terminology is even  _ weirder.” _

Jean stares at him, before chuckling. It was sincere, just like he had hoped it would be. “Oh right, okay, I guess I’ll have to spiral into the worst lore dump you have ever heard, are you ready?”

He nods, “Ready to hear more about our world, of course.”

“Okay, so basically, everything started with Ymir Fritz, about two thousand years ago...”

Marco could just sit here, staring at Jean’s perfect and handsome face, his mouth opening as his deep voice starts to fill in his ears about the true history of this world, and he could feel their entire world shrinking, until the only thing — or person — in his line of sight is Jean Kirschtein. Jean is beautiful, brilliant, and amazing, and just being touched by him is enough to make the fire inside of his heart spread like wildfire in every part of his body.

He has a stupid smile on his face but he does not care, as long as he can see that excited sheen in Jean’s eyes as his mouth curves to a smile as the story progresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i said slow burn... idk is this slow burn


End file.
